


The Soulmate's Guide to Pain and Pleasure

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: The Soulmate's Guide and Other Stories [1]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, College, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Epilepsy, Fluff and Angst, Head Injury, Homophobia, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, It's kind of both, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Pining, Platonic Soulmates, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Robbery, Romantic Soulmates, Seizures, Sex, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Monty (TGGTVAV), Transphobia, Vomiting, pain pals, the pirates are robbers, you know how it goes, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-16 23:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 73,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Percy Newton is heading off to college with his Soulmate, Henry 'Monty' Montague, who he is desperately in love with.  This is an unfortunate turn of events for one main reason: the Soulbond he shares with Monty is purely platonic.  It's not easy, being in love with your Pain Pal, but Percy is content to leave things be.  Really, he is.  Love is messy, their lives are chaotic, and more than once Percy thinks he's going to lose the love of his life, either to vice or to virtue, but he wouldn't trade what he has with Monty for the world.Or: A story about secrets, soulmates, soul-searching... and, above all else,love.





	1. The Departure

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome! It's nice to see you! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Updates will not be very swift but I do hope to have the entire story finished by the end of november.

Photo credit [here](https://a-ghost-named-k.tumblr.com/post/625824735556763649/the-soulmates-guide-to-pain-and-pleasure).

The morning of our departure, I wake in the same bed as Monty. 

It's a decent start to the day, if I do say so myself. I’ll have to sneak out before his father catches me in his bedroom, but that's fine. I’m a little hungover, which is also fine, because that means that I was the one drinking last night and Monty is safe to walk in front of his father for the last time before we’re off. It’s a sacrifice I’ve willingly made, drinking enough for the two of us, and I don’t regret it. Mostly.

That may just be because my fuzzy face is pressed into his navel, and the warmth of his body is far easier to latch onto than the nauseous haze that’s waiting at the back of my mind. In my half-awake state, he’s something far more than precious. He’s lying on his back, his shirt from the night before turned backwards after he failed to put it back on after shucking his binder, his bottle blond hair undoubtedly tangled to hell and back. So latch on I do, and slip back into a doze. Just until Sinclair comes up to wake us. Just until our day begins, I’m allowed to have this. Not forever, never forever, but for just a _little longer_.

My name is Percy Newton, and I have a problem: I’m in love with my Soulmate. 

You don’t have to say anything. I’ve heard it all. ‘_Damn, Percy, fallen for your Fated? What a _horrid_ life to live_.’ Trust me, I get it. The sarcasm is well deserved. We’re Bound, the two of us—Bound to care for each other, to be devoted to one another, to live together happily ever after. What part of that arrangement could I possibly find not to my liking? 

The answer is quite simple—there are two types of Soulbonds, and the one I have with Henry ‘Monty’ Montague? Purely platonic. 

I’m doomed to a life desperately in love with a man who will never love me back the way I desire. 

_That_ is my problem.

I sigh, brushing the thought away. I’m too sleepy to deal with it now. For now, Monty is in my arms and I am content. I doze as the world around us wakes, the sun comes up, and the day begins.

As predicted, Sinclair is discreet when he comes in around seven to rouse us. He throws open the curtains, which isn’t nice, but keeps his voice low as he greets us, allowing me ample opportunity to roll from the bed. After a moment on the floor, I snatch my shed clothing—sweater, shirt, socks, _check_—off the various surfaces they’ve found themselves and slip through the door back to the guest room before Monty has properly sat up. By the time I get there, my bladder feels like it’s about to burst, and I hastily muss the bedspread before I hear Monty calling out to me to _go pee, already, you bastard_.

It startles a small laugh out of me as I dive into the bathroom just ahead of Felicity, his dear sister, who has the misfortune of joining us for the first leg of our journey today. She’s already dressed, eyes on her phone, though she spares a moment to roll her eyes at me. “Where’s the fire?” she asks.

“In his pants,” Monty calls from the bedroom. Felicity wrinkles her nose, turning a distasteful look on me, but I’m already closing the door. We’ll have time to discuss the contents of my pants at a later time. Like when we’re all crammed into the van with the luggage we shoved in there last night. 

I do my business and clean myself up, taking a few minutes to shave my face clean in the mirror. Breakfast is already set by the time I make it downstairs, Monty trailing behind me in his pajama bottoms and a binder. He’s brazen, walking into the kitchen with just the binder on over his chest, but his father isn’t in the room and his mother immediately sets on Felicity about eating with her phone on the table, so he’s safe for now. 

“What’re we having?” he asks, falling heavily into a chair.

It’s fairly obvious, considering the spread on the table. I reach past him for the serving spoon to get myself some eggs.

“Oh, Percy, you can’t have those!” he says in a fake concerned tone, knocking my hand away. 

Undeterred, I continue on my quest, not looking at his face because I already know what I’d see: an unrepentant smile framed by those dimples that I’d probably die for. “I’m dieting, not vegan,” I tell him for the sixteen millionth time. 

“Oh, yes, dieting. I forgot. You think you’re somehow defective and strive to fix it through food.” He lets out a great huff of a sigh, though that smile is still set on his face. He leans over close to me, ignoring the look his mother is giving him, and goes, “I’m going to tell you something, Percy Newton, and you are to take it to heart. Ready?” 

I nod. 

“Alright, here goes: you are a fine man and you can’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Is that so?” I ask.

“Mmhmm. Besides, do you really think I’d surround myself with anyone who is less than perfect? No. I’m vain, thus all my friends must meet my standards of beauty.”

I snort. I’m not dieting for my weight, either, but I don’t mention this—it’s just easier to let Monty assume things than explain the intricacies of a ketogenic diet. Besides, it’s kind of cute that he’ll defend me like that. 

Upstairs the baby starts crying and I wince just slightly, the twinge of a headache starting behind my eye. It’s a reminder, one I’d rather do without. Alcohol and hangovers are triggers for seizures. As an epileptic with tonic-clonic seizures barely controlled by medication, I have to be diligent in making sure I take my meds. I make sure to discretely swallow a pill. 

Monty, having seen it from the corner of his eye, raises an eyebrow. 

“Tic-tac,” I say, pushing the container of pills back into my pocket. 

Now, before you start telling me how stupid it is to hide this from my Pain Pal, let me just say: he doesn't know about my diagnosis, and he doesn't _need_ to know. I'm not ashamed of being an epileptic, but it's… easier… to keep it on the down-low. It saves a lot of pain in the long run. And it's for the best, really, because Henry 'Monty' Montague is not known for his great sensitivity. 

Still, he eyes me for a long moment, as if he doesn't quite believe me. I eye him right back, raising an eyebrow. He breaks first, his expression melting into a smile. He then makes a joke about my apparent obsession with keeping my breath minty fresh, that it must be for all the ladies I’m charming. I screw up my face, pulling just hard enough on his short braid to feel the twinge on my own scalp. I don’t really mean it—I’m excited and so is he. The prospect of starting college is exciting. Our bickering is just us trying to keep our feet on the ground. Four years… free of parents, free of curfews, free of supervision… doing what we like, when we like… the freedom to dedicate myself to my music… with Monty at my side the entire time… I’ve never been more excited in my life. Except, possibly, the day I learned that Monty was my Soulmate.

I don’t dare tell him so, because his head is already the size of one of the carvings at Mount Rushmore and he doesn’t need anyone inflating it, but I’m thinking it all the way through my eggs. And then I’m thinking about the fact that we may just make it outside before his father catches us. And then I’m imagining getting sent off by just his mother and the butler, how nice that would be. It’d be nice to see the nanny and baby Adrian off as well, though Monty likely thinks the exact opposite. I’ve already said goodbye to my aunt and uncle—we just have to finish with Monty’s side of the family, Felicity not included, before we’re free. And if we can do that without seeing Mr. Montague at all, well… all the better.

It’s as I’m dreaming of a father-less morning that Henri the Senior walks into the dining room, closing a ledger book as he goes. “Henry,” he barks. I feel more than see Monty’s shoulders rise. Mrs. Montague looks up, starting to ask if he’s going to join us at the table, before Mr. Montague is planting a kiss on her head. He then beckons Monty toward the office with nary another word, walking away before Monty has even agreed. He closes the door behind him rather forcefully.

“Well then,” Monty says lightly, stabbing a last forkful of sausage. “Guess I’d better go see what he wants.”

I’d rather he not. I desperately wish he wouldn’t, in fact. But he and I both know from experience that it’ll be worse if he doesn’t, so off he goes. My eyes follow him all the way up until the door closes behind him with a click.

“Why do you look worried? Father is probably just hounding him about using his debit card responsibly.”

I half-turn toward Felicity, who hasn’t looked up from her phone. How she knows if I look worried or not I haven’t a clue. It’s a fair assessment, the debit card thing—one of the reasons we were sent home early from the road-trip during our gap year last spring was because Monty overdrafted our debit account trying to buy chips at a casino. That’s not what I’m worried about, though. 

I fiddle with my fork for just a moment, weighing what to say, or, more accurately, what not to say. Because here’s the problem—I have my secrets, my diet and my pills and the reason I need them, but Monty… Monty’s secrets have never been secret to me. Felicity doesn’t know because she doesn’t feel his pain in the literal sense that I do. Monty’s pain… it’s something I can’t allow her to know about. I can’t let it slip that their father beats him soundly every so often. Monty doesn’t want me to. It’s not her burden.

So, in the end, I say nothing. I finish my eggs in a few hurried swallows instead of answering her question, then make a comment about going to go grab my violin. I walk myself from the room like a marionette on strings. 

Once I’m out of the dining room, I relax a little, breathing deeply. The food helps with the hangover just enough that I’m sure Monty isn’t really feeling it, if he even was to begin with. Likely he felt the headache and not much else. It’s hard to tell which things translate, sometimes—physical pain always crosses the Link, but other sensations sometimes do and sometimes don’t. The high of a good glass of liquor usually translates, for instance, though generally at half intensity. Cold, though… not as likely. And longing? Yearning? Even when it’s so intense that it feels like a physical blow? Not at all.

It’s pain I’m waiting for now. Something sharp and sudden, with no clear cause, probably in the upper torso region. Mr. Montague wouldn’t dare aim for the face. Not so close to our departure, anyway. Ribs, on the other hand? Totally fair game. I consider shucking my shirt to better wait for the bloom of vivid sky blue across my chest to match the blues that mark each of Monty’s scars on my body.

Only it doesn’t happen. I’m still waiting when Monty rounds the corner, shoulders hunched and face pinched. Likely the conversation wasn’t pleasant but at least he’s not hurt. Not physically, anyway. I hate feeling his pain. And not just because pain is unpleasant—I hate to think of him hurting and alone, or hurting and guilty, or hurting and feeling as if he’d rather end it all, as inevitably happens when the hurt gets bad enough. I hate to think of Monty, lovely animated Monty, hurting in any sense of the word.

This is only partially because I’m madly in love with him, by the way. I would feel sick at the idea of anyone being beat by their father, but it’s just that much worse knowing that it’s Monty, the boy I love, the boy who’s pain I share. 

“What happened?” I ask, nudging Monty’s shoulder with my own. His frown looks like it’s sewn on, it’s cutting so deep into his cheeks.

“We’ve been assigned a _chaperone_,” is his answer, delivered in the exact same tone one might deliver the news that their mother’s funeral is next Friday.

“Oh. For the dorms?” 

“Nope,” he says grimly. “He’s done us the favor of buying an apartment for the three of us, in the ‘intellectual’ part of the city.”

Ah. I pause, thinking this through. It’s not ideal, but… after the fiasco of our gap year, I’m willing to put in some effort to make it work. “So that means… what, less parties and more museums? I think we can deal with that. Sounds kind of dreamy, even.”

“It does not sound dreamy!” Monty snaps, though he’s rolling his eyes, the frown twitching like it wants to become something else. “It’s not going to be the _same_. It’ll be symphonies this and galleries that and _no_, Monty, no alcohol for _you_. Ugh. What’s even the _point_?”

“No parents,” I remind him. I neglect to mention the fact that we’ll also be learning, the main purpose of college. 

He makes a face like he’s sucking on a lemon. “No parents, yes, but there will be a proxy of my father babysitting us the entire fucking time. Doesn’t that, I don’t know, bum you out?”

I laugh. “Not as much as it does you, dear. I’d love to see the symphony.”

That sets him off muttering, turning a disgruntled look on me before he starts ascending the stairs in search of a proper shirt. I follow, watching him the whole way, because I do actually need to pick up my violin from the guest bedroom before we go. His frown doesn’t let up all the way through his door, though it’s beginning to look more pout-like than anything. 

“I hate you a little bit, you know,” he says, standing in his doorway with his hip cocked and his hand planted on it.

“No, you don’t,” I respond, pulling out my phone to text my aunt and uncle that we’ll be off in the next few minutes. 

“No, I don’t,” he agrees, “But I want to. _Symphonies_.”

And with that, he turns up his nose and closes his door in my face. He emerges a few minutes later, wearing a rather flamboyantly colored shirt and pants so tight I can’t help but admire his thighs. I try not to make it obvious. 

It’s futile. He quirks a knowing brow at me. “I know I look good,” he says. “Now let’s get this disaster on the road!” With that, he locks his elbow with mine and starts to guide me down to the front walk.

Thus our trip begins, in classic Monty fashion.


	2. The Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy and Monty head to college with Felicity.

Our ride starts with a bang, literally, when Monty accidentally closes his hand in the van door. The pain is sharp and I cry out, though not as loudly as Monty. Felicity rolls her eyes as he shakes the hurt hand and claims that it’s broken. It’s not—we both know what that really feels like, him first-hand and me through our Bond.

It’s a funny thing, a Soulbond. I think about that as I nurse my throbbing hand and Monty moans next to me. Monty and I have been Bound as long as I can remember, but it wasn’t until we were five that his mother sat us down and explained what that meant, why we could feel each other’s pain and were Marked with each other’s Colors. Why my skinned knee was Marked on Monty’s body in a light, flowery lilac, and his split lip Marked on mine in that vivid sky blue. We were both enamored with the idea of it from the start—the Colors and connections and circuitous bonds woven by something beyond our meager comprehension as human beings, all of it coming together to remind us that we were two of the same, connected by Fate itself. Even then it was the two of us against the world, elbow to elbow, dust to dust.

Now, as our five hour road trip begins—an hour out of our way to Felicity’s all-girl’s school to the west and then another four hours to our actual destination—I wonder if it’ll be the same at college. Will it be us against the world again? Monty is a social butterfly, he’ll likely start making friends (and, inevitably, enemies) the moment we arrive. Where will that leave me? As hard as I try I’m never quite accepted with the same ease as Monty. Perhaps it’s the color of my skin, or my quiet nature. Who can really say.

I bite my lip, looking out the window at the landscape passing by. The instances of streetlights and buildings go down drastically as we exit the city, the highway leading us out into the wilderness. It’s beautiful, but for not the first time I feel as if I’m leaving behind a part of myself, my childhood, to be on this journey today. It’s nothing so dramatic as knowing I’m leaving and never coming back, but still, it hits me deep in my chest that I’m leaving home, for college, for real. 

Monty, feeling the exact opposite, spends the first half hour snickering at dirty jokes on his phone as Felicity tries to put as much space between them as is humanly possible. His laughter makes me weak—sometimes I’ll come out with a dirty joke myself just to hear that surprised snort. He keeps flexing his hand, sending little pulses of dull pain through mine, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Which is all just par for the course when it comes to Monty, really. I can’t fault him his natural state of driving me absolutely insane, in the best and worst ways.

“We’re here, Miss Montague,” our driver says, sooner than I’m expecting. I glance out the window—the school is a massive brick building that must be at least seventy years old, one that seems to loom from the wilderness all around it. There are a few smaller, and slightly newer, buildings surrounding it, and what looks like a tennis court off in the distance, in the middle of some lush gardens that a few girls are tending to. It’s beautiful, peaceful-looking and charming.

“Wow. And to think I could have gone to this magnificent paradise if I were just a little less gender-fucked,” Monty says, breaking through my moment. He’s elbowing his sister in the ribs, laughter in his eyes at exactly how Un-Felicity-Like this place is. When I look over, Felicity has a look on her face like she’s half a second away from taking his fingers and bending them backwards until they break for real. I don’t think she’d actually do it, but I causally place myself between the two siblings just in case. I’d rather not suffer the pain of a broken hand today after all.

Thankfully they cool off fast, staring out at the school on either side of me. Monty has settled into a smirk, while Felicity has a rather impressive frown upon her face. “This place is my purgatory,” she says after a moment, which I think is rather dramatic. Like brother like sister, though, because Monty said the exact same thing about our rooming arrangements for college not two hours before. It’s my professional opinion that Montagues must be dramatic or they’ll die. The only one who seems to be immune to this is Mrs. Montague, who is, in fact, a Montague only by marriage and not by blood. Even baby Adrian seems to like wailing for the sake of it.

As dramatic as she and her bloodline is, however, Felicity can’t put off move-in forever. We need to get going if we want to make it to our destination with daylight to spare. So with that in mind, we begin unloading the various suitcases marked with Felicity’s name and head down to the building to get her settled in.

It’s a challenge. The halls are a mess of girls all in various degrees of move-in, luggage carts and large groups clogging up the walkways. It is, in short, utter chaos. It’s what I’d imagine the first day at the dorms at the college would be like, if we were headed that way. We’re not, however, so I suppose we’ll just have to soak it up now before it’s gone again. 

We’re on our second trip—Felicity has an awful lot of books packed away for the coming year—when Monty catches my eye and jerks his head around at the various parental figures and staff members crowding the hallways. I raise an eyebrow. He nods.

I grin. Then I open my mouth and say loudly, “I do say, this place is bloody chockablock with the masses.”

“Yes, seems we’re among the chavs now, eh?” Monty responds.

“Well! I suppose we can slum it for a day, as they say. It’ll be a right grotty experience but it’s only for a day.”

A man beside us turns up his nose and leans in to say something to his wife, eyeing us baldly as Monty tries to hold in giggles. Felicity looks like she’d rather die than be stuck in between us, especially during our favorite game of adopting posh British accents to see if we can fool people into thinking we’re boujee English elite, but stuck she is and Monty and I have enough Brit slang to fuel us for a good few hours. It’s hilarious, the kinds of responses we get. We once convinced a man out walking his dog that we were lost British tourists, and conscripted the poor guy into giving us a tour around the city that he obviously didn’t want to be on. We even got a selfie with him, which I have packed away in one of my own suitcases in the back of the van. 

Ah, fun times.

“You two are _embarrassments_,” Felicity hisses, when we’ve returned to the van for our final goodbyes. 

“Aw, you know you love me,” Monty says, still affecting the highborn accent. 

“No! I don’t!” she snaps, pushing him away as Monty tries to wrap his arms around her, laughing all the while. He makes a kissy face at her and she punches him in the gut, just strong enough to pass across the Bond to me. They scuffle for a moment, all sibling affection, before our driver clears his throat. I glance around—no paparazzi, at least none that are obvious. Still, they break up their fight, fixing their clothes and muttering curses at each other from the corners of their mouths. Felicity is extra careful to pull her sleeve down over the green Mark on her forearm.

“You’re lucky you’re the son of the governor, otherwise I’d break your damn arm,” she says.

“Touche, dearest sister,” Monty says back, still sporting a grin. They then share a more perfunctory goodbye hug, awkward for the fact that they hardly ever hug except in public, after which we’re on our way. We wave until Felicity is a lone speck on the horizon behind us.

“Eh, she’ll be fine,” Monty says, as if answering a question I didn’t ask. Reassuring himself, maybe. I hum, settling back in to watch the landscape passing us by. I’m sure she will be—she’s strong-willed, the same way Monty is. She gets what she wants. And if that just so happens to be a good education, well… I’m sure she’ll manage to bully someone there into giving it to her.

The rest of our trip consists of playing cards and betting our pocket money on them, after which I sit and gloat while Monty settles with his arms crossed in a haughty silence. The view out the window is starting to fill with human-made structures and looping lengths of powerlines instead of vast wilderness. I’m not aware of the exact moment that we cross the city line but soon enough there are multi-story buildings and street lights and pedestrians. We pass by the university that we’ll be attending for the next four years—I recognize it by the massive metal sculpture by the main campus entrance. I rest my hand on my violin case as it rolls on past.

Then, just as Monty is starting to get antsy in his seat, we arrive at the apartment complex. It’s mid-afternoon according to my phone—I text my aunt and uncle that we’ve arrived as the driver pulls into the lot around the side and finds our designated spot. Monty’s car will be arriving sometime in the next few days, and the boxes that we sent ahead have already arrived. 

I’m eager to stretch my legs, but I find Monty in my way. “Oh, that’s adorable,” he’s saying, paused just out the door. I have to nudge him aside in order to climb out of the van, struggling to maneuver without hitting my head on the door jamb. When I look up again I see what Monty is talking about—a little green car in the second space reserved for apartment 17B. It is, indeed, adorable, and must belong to our brand-new chaperone as well as flatmate, Lockwood.

Who, I assume, is the man standing at the front door, waiting for us, one hand waving. I give a half-hearted wave back, studying him from head to toe as we get closer.

He’s exactly what I’d expect of a grad student, which is a surprise in itself. From Monty’s sordid description I’d assumed he was more of an ex-military type, the kind of man who gets up at the crack of dawn to do push-ups in the kitchen as he makes a breakfast of grits. But no, he’s soft and somewhat pudgy, with a long red ponytail and ginger scruff, and though he does say that he was once in the navy he admits that he never saw any active combat.

“I was in the reserves,” he says, as he grabs one of Monty’s suitcases from him. “Did it mostly for the educational benefits.”

Monty, standing at my side, is barely paying attention—that, apparently, falls to me. I nod along, feigning a polite interest as the man goes on to talk a bit about his current major—French literature—which will be his third degree, and also the weather in our area, and the local sights, etc etc etc. He’s covered everything I’d ever hoped to know about the city and more by the time we’ve emptied the van of our belongings. It’s quite impressive. He’s got a personality well-suited to be a tour guide.

“Boooring,” Monty mouths behind his back. I roll my eyes.

We spend a few hours setting up our rooms. The furniture situation is dire—Mr. Montague had beds and dressers and a dining room table with chairs delivered last week, it seems, but the rest of it falls to us to figure out. I’m scratching my head over how to buy a couch when Lockwood comes in to prattle a bit about Monty’s father’s expectations for us this year.

It’s really very simple. Take everything that Monty likes and cut it out of our lives and you’ll have exactly what his father expects of us. 

Lockwood then tells us that he’s reserved a table at a local high-end restaurant to celebrate our first night in the city, glances at his watch, realizes we’re already running late, and hustles us out the door.

I’m already looking forward to bed by the time we’ve arrived. I’ve never had much stamina—I was sick often as a kid, and now, well… suffice to say that my activities tend to be dictated by my illness a bit more than I’d like. Still, I try to keep the conversation lively if polite, covering all the while for Monty, who keeps trying to slip away to the bar to charm a drink from a lovely young bartender of the male variety. Lockwood, fortunately or unfortunately, seems to have anticipated this and keeps Monty very much occupied for the entire duration of the meal. Monty makes about as many faces while Lockwood is looking away as Lockwood himself tells stories. 

It’s tame, and pleasant, and as I fiddle with my last few bites of food I’m sure that it won’t last very long at all.


	3. The Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soulmates go furniture shopping.

“You don’t know what’s in this box.”

“Nope.”

“Like, at all?”

“Not a clue.”

“…So what you’re telling me is that this box is a complete mystery to you.”

“Sounds about right.”

I laugh, shaking my head. We’ve been unpacking for two days straight and still haven’t found a rhyme or reason to the objects we’re unearthing. Sure, a lot of it is clothing—probably too much of it, to be honest, if the exploded state of Monty’s closet is anything to go by—but we’ve yet to find a single kitchen utensil in our archaeological dig and our situation is getting desperate. We’re beginning to doubt that the servants who packed this stuff knew what they were doing. Not that we know what we’re doing, either. By god. The two of us were joking about slumming it when we dropped off Felicity, but the fact is that we’re without servants or even cooks for the first time in our lives. We’ve been surviving off of take-out and Lockwood’s generosity.

Speaking of Lockwood. I pass the box-cutter off to Monty, trusting him to open a single box without cutting off a finger, and turn to the man who has been standing in the doorway watching us with a funny look on his face for the last fifteen minutes. What he’s thinking is a complete mystery. My best guess is that he’s started to regret rooming with a couple of freshman undergrads. The fact that Monty’s father has paid the lease in totality for the next four years is likely the only thing keeping him from taking a running start right out the front door.

“Don’t worry about the mess, we’ll have it cleaned up soon,” I say, wiping a hand across my temple to catch a stray drop of sweat. We’ve been working hard.

Lockwood blinks, looking owlishly at me. He clears his throat. “That would be preferable to having boxes scattered across the floor, yes.”

We’re working on it, I swear we are. It just so happens that when you have a menagerie of boxes they must go somewhere, and the floor just so happens to be the most convenient place for them. Go figure. I nod anyway to be polite, looking back at Monty. He’s currently struggling to pop the blade out of the box-cutter’s handle. A moment later he gets it open with a triumphant yell, holding it aloft. 

I’m preparing myself to go spelunking when Lockwood clears his throat again. I look back. 

The funny look is still there, funnier than ever. “Right. Well. I just happened to be looking at our budget for the year and I’ve got a bit set aside for furniture and household decorations, if you’d like to—?”

Monty is the kind of person who groans loudly at the very idea of having to leave the house on inane errands. As such, I’m expecting him to groan loudly at the idea that we’ll be going shopping. I’m not expecting his head to flick up, a twinkle in his eye and a smile gracing his lips. But he does, and I’m left floundering for a moment as I try to figure out what his deal is. What has he got up his sleeve?

I figure it out ten minutes later when he guides us into the parking lot of a thrift shop on the edge of downtown.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind…” Lockwood starts, but Monty is already gone, skipping off to the door. 

“After you!” Monty says. He bows me inside, dimples showing. 

It’s a novel experience for both Monty and I—neither of us have ever had cause to set foot in a thrift store before. High-end co-ops? Sure. My aunt has dragged us around plenty. Monty’s mother is into antiques and loves to peruse Antique Row, a street in uptown in our hometown that sells overpriced furniture sets from the 1700s. The entire Montague house is full of that stuff. But this? The everyman’s shop? A place where you can buy chipped glassware _and_ used shoes? This is entirely new, and I’m starting to understand Monty’s excitement. Especially as he casually reaches forward to pluck a hat—a beanie with a giant insignia on the side—off a hook, placing it jauntily on his head. Such an act would be a _faux pas_ in one of the fancy establishments we’re used to, where you’re supposed to be waited on by attendants. Here it doesn’t even merit a glance, except by Lockwood, who is hovering awkwardly.

From there it’s just a question of how many hijinks we can accomplish in the time it takes to wander to the back where the furniture is. 

“Looking for anything in particular?” one of the shop workers asks us. She’s an older woman with a very deep voice. Her counterpart, a young woman maybe a year or two older than us, is busy at the front manning the cash register. She glances over with interest as Monty waves the first lady off, giving him a look up and down. I pretend not to notice, but Monty certainly does not—he pauses where he stands to wink across the store.

Trust Monty to find someone to flirt with everywhere he goes. I sigh a little. Then I pick up a cap with a bill, tell the lady that we’re just looking, and plant it on my curly hair.

From there it’s ogling at all the little ceramic house decor items, flipping through rows of well-worn books, and collecting more and more hats until we’re both balancing a good dozen on our heads. I find a set of iron pokers and haul one up, pointing it at Monty with a grin. “Aye, avast!” I call.

“Ah, if it isn’t the pirate Two Tooth the Terrible, my nemesis enemy!” he says, reaching for a ruler. He raises it and puffs out his chest, his eyes practically sparkling.

I grin, raising my poker to swipe at him. “That’s _Captain_ Two Tooth to you, fiend!”

“Is that so?” he asks, and goes to swipe back. 

He’s stopped by the younger shop worker, who puts a hand with sparkly purple nails on his elbow, pausing him. “Sorry, guys, but if you want to sword fight you’re gonna have to take it outside,” she says. To her credit, she does sound genuinely apologetic. I smile sheepishly as I rid myself of my hat tower.

Monty, meanwhile, has a hand planted flat on his chest, his eyes wide and his mouth open. “Percy!” he says, casting a glance to me. “Percy, shield your eyes! I think it’s an angel, descended from the heavens!”

I roll my eyes instead, grabbing his hats, as well, before the teetering pile finds its way to the floor. The woman is smiling, hiding a laugh behind her manicured nails. Like a snake, she’s been charmed, which is fair because Monty is putting everything he has into charming her. 

I sidle away, clearing my throat. I’ll admit, I’m not particularly fond of watching every little pretty thing capture Monty’s attention. He’s so rapt when it comes to pretty things—I desperately wish he’d focus that energy on me. But alas, he does not, and I fall back to where Lockwood is standing with his face in his hand, muttering about how he sees now that his work is cut out for him.

“Does this often, does he?” he asks. I shrug a bit, still nursing my unrequited crush in the cradle of my chest. He does it often enough. 

Lockwood sighs. Then he begins clapping his hands, calling Monty to attention. “We’re here for a reason, enough dawdling!” he calls, thanking the shop worker and sending her on her way.

“Tightass,” Monty mutters, and Lockwood gives him an acidic look. I suspect our fun-having is well over for the day.

And I’m right. The rest of our time is spent talking about measurements and matching the carpeting and whatever else goes into buying your own furniture. We do end up buying a few things there, most notable among them a massive three-seater couch that we pay extra for them to haul for us. Monty is decidedly out of sorts as we pass by the lovely young woman on our way out the door. He makes a face behind Lockwood’s back. She giggles.

Lockwood, meanwhile, has devolved into muttering about how we could have just ordered furniture online, for god’s sake. “It would have none of this _hassle_,” he says as we load ourselves into his car. Monty flops into the backseat and puts a foot up on the seat in front of him, pointedly ignoring him.

This is the general mood of our first week in the city. Monty tries to do just about anything and Lockwood finds a way to block his way. He was a good choice as chaperone, I have to admit, as he drops us off at freshman orientation events. Monty tries to sneak us away from the RAs and orientation staff and there is Lockwood, sitting at the entrance with a book in hand. We retreat back inside to rendezvous.

Our first break comes just after the school year starts. As a graduate student, Lockwood’s work ramps up much faster than ours does, occupying his time rather quickly. As such we soon realize the one major loophole in Henri the Senior’s instructions—he only told Lockwood to watch after Monty, leaving me free to go out at night and drink enough for the both of us. Whether or not Lockwood knows that we’re Pain Pals remains to be seen, but for now we exploit that loophole like our lives depend on it. Well, that and figuring out that Monty’s room looks out over the roofed carport, allowing him to sneak out the old-fashioned way.

Which is how we find ourselves out late and slightly buzzed, splashing around in the university’s indoor pool in our day clothes. 

“Just go under already!” I say. “Quit stalling!”

“And ruin my hair for the night?! Not likely!” Monty shoots back.

Fine, if that’s how he wants to play it. “Is that so?” I ask. He’s about to respond when I grin a shark-like grin and hook my foot around his ankle, yanking it out from under him. 

My long gangly limbs come in very handy at times like these. There’s no contest—he goes under all at once, with a yelp and a splash, and comes up looking at me like I’ve betrayed him and stabbed him in the back. I laugh as he coughs out water and glares at me from under dripping hair. 

“Stop laughing!” he says.

I grin, looking down at his drenched face. He’s beautiful, even like this. “Nah, don’t think I will.”

He flails out, coming at me, and I laugh again. “Oh, you’re just asking for it now!” he yells, and I splash away from a Monty intent on revenge like my life depends on it.

This, by the way, is the reason I take my meds in secret and never fully explain my diet. I don’t want things to change. I know what would happen, how he’d look at me, if he knew about the epilepsy. I don’t want him to pity me. That’s the last thing I’d ever want. It’s selfish, and childish, but I’ve seen it happen before with people I love and it _hurts_. 

Fifteen minutes later we’re draped across two beach chairs at the side of the pool, drip-drying in the dusk of dim after-hours lights. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to be here or not, but I don’t much care. I’ve got more important things on my mind. Like how ridiculous Monty looks dozing off with his bleached blond hair tangled and drying, plastered to his forehead, and a pair of plastic sunglasses sliding down his nose. He was right—his hair is absolutely ruined. It’s endearing.

I settle back, tugging my gaze away to look up through the skylight above me. The stars are just now coming out, weak and shimmering in the light of the city. It’s beautiful, in a way… but it also makes sadness seize in my chest. How much brighter would the stars be without the city lights? How much stronger, how much prettier?

And then I think about myself in conjunction with those thoughts, unbidden, as I sometimes do. Without the epilepsy… without the epilepsy how much stronger, brighter, prettier would _I_ be? Would Monty want me then?

I remember the first seizure I ever had. Well, not the seizure itself—I don’t remember seizures at all. I do remember what I was doing before it happened, however. And what happened after. 

I was sixteen. A junior in high school. Helping my uncle weed the garden. He used to have gardeners to do it for him but after his retirement from his position in the school district he decided he needed a hobby, and that was what he chose. It was time for just the two of us. We aren’t related by blood—my aunt is my aunt by blood, but my uncle? Just by marriage. It was my aunt I came to stay with when my father died when I was three. And my uncle who had to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t his flesh and blood who needed his care and attention.

Anyway. That day was a quiet one. I remember feeling hot and unhappy under the sun, sweating through my shirt. My legs ached from squatting. My fingernails were caked with the mud that kept getting into my gloves when I wasn’t looking. I’d paused with one hand on the ground. This was just before the big event, my first grand mal seizure, and I remember looking up and wondering why the world had gotten so hazy around me, why everything suddenly smelled so _bitter_. 

That was the aura, the calm before the storm. I lost consciousness halfway to a stand, falling into a bucket of gardening tools. I took out a row of flowers, too. I don’t remember that, but I do remember coming to in the ambulance afterward, covered in dirt with my uncle looking down on me. I remember that. And I remember the _look_ on his face. I’ve never forgotten it. Pity… and fear… and just a pinch of unease.

I glance back at Monty, watching as his chest rises and falls slowly in sleep. The day Monty looks at me like that is surely the day I die.


	4. The Gun

The first months of college are enjoyable. A few close calls here, a few miscalculations there, but for the most part we move along with our lives just fine. My violin studies are going superbly—it’s a joy to finally be around like-minded people. Not that being around Monty is anything less than a joy, it’s just that his stance on music—that if you can’t dance to it it doesn’t matter—has put a bit of a damper on my sheet music choices. I’m tired of Ke$ha. She’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard, but I’m rather enjoying playing Bach for once. It’s a wonderful accompaniment to a night out and a few shots of vodka.

It’s as I’m settling in for four years of smooth sailing that Monty throws a wrench in our whole damn arrangement.

“I think I’m in love,” he says as he comes in from biology class one day. He fake-swoons on the couch, waiting for me to ask who the darling damsel is.

I bite. “Do tell,” I say, falling into the cushion beside his head. I pluck a stray lock of hair from his face, leaning over him to get a better look at the love-struck expression he’s sporting. It’s beautiful, even if it’s not directed at me.

“I was paired up with Sinjon today—the one I told you about, with the blue eyes—and by _god_, Percy, he’s perfect.”

I try not to make a face. He’s told me a great deal about Sinjon already. All curly blond hair—_natural_—and a face full of freckles, I think I’ve heard just about everything there is to be heard of him.

Oh, how wrong I am.

Monty falls, and he falls hard. It lasts for three weeks, the sordid affair between Monty and Sinjon, by far the longest fling Monty has ever had. He’s usually the kind of person who thinks a one-night stand is quite enough getting to know someone, but Sinjon somehow weasels his way in and refuses to weasel his way out again. And all the while, I’m barraged with aaall the sordid details. 

If I have to read one more text about blue-eyed Sinjon Westfall I think I’ll throw my phone onto one of the gas burners in our small kitchen and set it ablaze.

And then, all at once… it’s over?

“You going out tonight?” I ask, leaning over the back of the couch. Monty is lying there in the exact same way he did three weeks before, only this time with significantly less swooning. I frown a little as I realize the glass in his hand is filled with straight whiskey. Lockwood is out at an advisory meeting but that doesn’t mean we should get careless about having alcohol out in the open.

Monty doesn’t respond to me, staring wordlessly up at the ceiling. A sinking feeling squirms in my gut.

“What’s up?” I ask, softer now. 

Monty’s mouth twists, finally acknowledging my presence. He glares upward like he’d enjoy nothing more than taking a hacksaw to the roof above. “Me and Sinjon had a falling out. He… broke up with me,” he says after a long moment pursing his lips. Then he sits up on an elbow and drains the last of his drink before flopping back. I wince, starting to feel the inebriation.

He’s hurting. That’s very clear. It’s not a novel experience in itself; as his Pain Pal I can attest to the fact that Monty has been hurt any number of ways, any number of times. All the same, I know that I would do anything to make it stop.

It’s been that way since we were kids. Monty hurting and me wishing he wouldn’t. It started when we were little—too little to understand capital punishment, though that didn’t stop Monty’s father from spanking him a good deal more than my uncle spanked me. It was but a precursor to Monty’s real troubles with his father, and even then I was desperate to make him feel better. 

Little did I know that it would only get worse from there.

The shift happened when we were in third grade. Monty had been screwing around in class and didn’t finish a test, and received a failing grade on it. That night, while I was brushing my teeth, I felt the palm that struck his cheek. Two days later, I was to learn that it wasn’t a one-time thing. 

The strikes came on an irregular schedule but I always knew what they were, if not always why they came. The day Monty came out as trans was the worst—his father was alright ‘letting’ him be a boy because he hadn’t wanted a daughter for an eldest child, but a boy who also _liked_ boys? That was too much for Henri the Senior. It was one or the other. And so came the beating—trying to beat one or the other out of Monty like if he landed enough fists it would flip a switch inside the kid and he’d become ‘acceptable’. It resulted in our first shared broken bone, Monty’s arm. He had a cast for six weeks.

On an unrelated note, I have one person on my list of people to murder with my bare hands if the chance should ever arise. Well… maybe two. Richard Peele exists, after all. I’m not into violence—I’m about as soft as they come, honestly—but that kid… he makes me see red. 

Back to the point, which is that I’ve seen and/or felt Monty hurt in any number of ways. This, however… this is the first time I think I’ve ever seen him take a sincere blow to the heart. He’s never been broken up with before—it’s always him leaving behind the trail of broken hearts. He’s never experienced that kind of pain, not once in his life, and it’s opened a fantastic desire within me to make it _better_.

So I do. I try. I take the glass gently from his hands, place it on the rickety coffee table, and bully him into sitting up long enough to plant myself on the couch and settle him back with his head on my lap. When he’s stilled I stroke his hair back from his forehead and say, “You deserve better.”

He huffs, scrunching up his nose. He’s not crying and I doubt he will—I haven’t seen him cry since his father broke his arm, and even then it didn’t last long—but there’s still a vulnerability, a weakness, in his gaze. It’s there in the way he avoids looking straight at me.

“I’m serious,” I say. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“And you know that how?” he asks dully.

“Because if my guess is right, then you and dear Sinjon fell out because he didn’t want to make your relationship public. He wanted to keep it quiet, and you, my dear, are not made for quiet. You were made to be paraded around and lavished upon with love at all hours of the day and night.”

He grunts, making a sticky kind of noise deep in his chest. “Well whoop-de-do for me. That makes me literally the most high-maintenance person to ever exist. No one wants that. Why do I even try?”

“Nooo,” I say, flicking him on the nose. “It makes you suited to a different type of person, a different type of relationship. There are a thousand possible futures that I could describe off the top of my head that include you and a man—or woman—in a happy, fulfilling relationship that suits both your needs. Sinjon just doesn’t happen to be one of them. In short, get _fucked_ Sinjon.” 

That gets a snort from Monty. I smile down at him as he mulls over what I’ve said, leaning back to give him space. Because I _do_ believe that there are any number of futures where Monty is happy, and I _do_ believe that he’ll find one or another of them. If I’m silently hoping it’s the possible future that includes a romance with me, well… that’s for me alone to know. I’m not going to dump my feelings on him like this, while he’s nursing his bruised heart along with copious amounts of alcohol. There will be a better time. I choose to believe that, too.

It comes sooner than I’m expecting. Not two weeks after his break-up Monty looks across the dinner table at me with a sparkle in his eye and I know he’s got a plan.

“Lockwood,” he says conversationally. “Did you know that there’s a lecture by Gilberte Furstenberg happening in the city center tonight?”

Lockwood nods, not looking up from the book he has open on the table. It’s a thick tome, something that reminds me of the books Felicity likes to read, if a little older.

Monty gives me a smile, dimples flashing, casually twirling a lock of his hair as he looks innocently at Lockwood. “You’ve done so much for us, taken us to so many _interesting_ things since school began, I thought, well… I should do something in return. So I bought you a ticket.”

“And what will you two do while I’m out? Not get in trouble, I hope?” Lockwood says dryly, turning a page.

“Well, originally we were intending to go with you. But Percy’s been complaining of a headache on and off all day so I think he’d rather stay home to have it, and of course I’ll need to watch over him.” Monty sighs. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to go. It just seemed like the kind of thing you’d enjoy.”

For a moment it seems as if Lockwood won’t be budged. Then, all at once, his shoulders drop. “I do love Dr. Furstenberg’s work,” he admits. He looks shrewdly at Monty for a long moment, a wry little smile on his face. “You know, I worried for a while that nothing would get through that hard head of yours, but it seems as if the enrichment has done you some good. Your father will be pleased.”

“Oh, my father, of course! I’d do anything to please him,” Monty says, and I’m sure he’s going to blow it for us for how thick he’s laying it on, but Lockwood is apparently on another plane of existence at the idea of going to see Dr. whomever the fuck. He finishes up his dinner practically beaming, after which he collects his ticket and heads out the door.

The moment he’s gone Monty lets out a low whoop, and hauls me to my feet. “I thought he wasn’t going to fall for it,” he says. “Go put on a jacket. That tight black one—that’s my favorite.”

“And where, praise tell, are we off to?” I ask. The headache excuse wasn’t actually an excuse—I’ve had a lowgrade headache all day, and I have been complaining about it. But Monty has accurately assessed that a little pain won’t stop me from having a nice evening out with him, which he’s using to his full advantage. 

Though really, he could have been a bit more considerate than to choose a karaoke bar. He goes to order us drinks with his fake ID while I scout out a table.

It’s not a particularly wild adventure, as far as our adventures have gone. Monty is still drinking a little heavier than usual, which I note with a twinge of sadness, but I don’t stop him and just accept the fact that I’m going to be Bond-high for the rest of the night. It works out to my favor—the singing is mostly atrocious, and the noise levels have us shouting to be heard. After his fourth drink, Monty gets up on stage to sing a Britney Spears song that I’ve only ever heard on his pop stations. I shake my head when he tries to get me to join in. Singing is… it’s not the worst, but I’d rather not do it in public. 

Monty has no such qualms. I watch him pour his heart out into a song and imagine he’s singing to me.

When we get home it’s not quite late yet, and we’ve another hour or so until Lockwood is due back. Monty is drunk and I’m buzzed, and we settle in my room with some snacks. I watch with fascination as Monty scoops peanut butter onto a spoon and then dips his pretzels in it. It’s a very convoluted way to go about eating something, and I find myself smiling.

It’s then that I look up from his hands to discover Monty watching me back, his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t seem enthused about our music selection tonight,” he says.

“Did I not?” I ask lightly.

“Nope. Not in the slightest.”

“Well, you were having fun. What would you have me do about it?”

“Play me something. Something of yours.”

I blink. He’s serious, waving me toward my violin, swaying a little where he sits. I don’t usually play while drunk or Bond-high, but if it’s for Monty, well… how can I say no?

So I unpack my violin and I play. Not Bach, because I know how Monty’s eyes glaze over for classical music, but not Ke$ha, either. Something modern, but more to my own tastes. Something soulful, that evokes emotion.

I don’t watch him as I play. I close my eyes and feel the music from my buzzing head to my light fingertips. It’s something personal, playing my father’s violin—it’s the last thing he left me before he died. I’ve grown into it, grown into a musician that I think he’d be proud of, and I feel all that and more every time I bring bow to string.

Afterward, however, I open my eyes and find Monty just… looking at me. The look on his face is so, so soft.

“What?” I breathe, not daring to lower my bow.

“What what?” Monty breathes back.

“That face, that look on your face,” I say. “You look rather smitten right now, if I do say so myself.”

Monty huffs a surprised laugh. “Is a man not allowed to appreciate his Soulmate’s divine playing?” he asks.

God, do I wish he meant the other kind of Soulmate. It’s tantalizing, how much I want it. But I’m buzzed and Monty looks light and happy for real for the first time in a while and maybe… just maybe…

I lick my lips, glancing down to his mouth. I don’t bother lowering my violin—I just reach forward with the hand still holding the bow, place my finger under his chin, and draw his face up toward mine—

Two things happen simultaneously. One, Monty’s phone rings with Felicity’s name on the caller ID. And two, the doorbell goes off, though we’re not expecting anyone who doesn’t have a key.

Monty laughs. “Hold that thought,” he says, reaching for the phone. I nearly groan aloud, tucking my violin away to go answer the door. I’m not sure if he got the gist of what I was planning to do—god, he must have, it’s not like he’s never been kissed before—but the moment is over now and I’m livid. I throw open the door with an eyebrow raised.

Only to wince back from the gun pointed directly at my forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> An all-violin cover of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVvj5ZQmj_I) is the song Percy plays, btw.
> 
> EDIT: CHANGED MY MIND IT'S AN ALL-VIOLIN COVER OF [THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Adnyi0N9JHw).


	5. The Robbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Scipio and the robbers, lads!

“Percy? Who is it?” Monty calls from the bedroom. I don’t answer. I’m too busy stepping toe-to-heel back into the house, following the unspoken instructions of the man—not very large but certainly more muscled than me, a mere violinist—who is holding the gun to my head.

“Who’s in the bedroom?” the man asks, voice low. His skin is dark and his accent is heavy, an interesting mix of Bostonian and Bajan. It’s like he came directly from Barbados by way of Massachusetts. His gaze is hard, sharp, as he waits for an answer.

Like an idiot, I eye the gun for half an instant, wondering if maybe I can grab it and yank it away before he can fire it. As I do, I have the dawning realization that there are more people coming in behind him, crowding into our livingroom. Each of them carries a knife or a crowbar or some other implement of pain. The last one in, the smallest and also the youngest, closes the door gently behind them. 

I decide it’s best to answer the question, the adrenaline eating away at my Bond-high. 

“My Pain Pal, Monty. No one else is home,” I say, and I’m proud for an instant that my voice barely shakes. 

Then, of course, the man with the gun pulls back the safety with an ominous click, and I reevaluate the fact that I haven’t yet pissed my pants. “Call him in here,” he says. “Now.”

I swallow once and clear my throat, calling out, “Monty? Would you—ah—would you come here?”

“I’m on the phone!”

The gun twitches. I raise my voice. “It’s for you.”

“Fiiine.” There’s a bang from the hallway, and I swallow again, hard, as we wait for Monty to round the corner. “I’m drunker than I thought,” I hear him mutter, which makes one of us. Did he steal another drink while answering his cell? I’m not sure—adrenaline is overpowering everything on my end. Wouldn’t put it past him, though.

There’s the sound of Felicity laughing over speakerphone. Monty has a smile on his face when he finally appears, but as his inebriated mind takes in the sight of me, the gun, and a good number of armed men—thieves? Robbers? Extortionists? All of the above?—it drops right off. 

“Hand the phone to my good friend Georgie,” the man with the gun says. Monty does, his hand shaking just slightly as the smallest of the robbers takes it from him. His eyes find mine, flicking back and forth from me to the gun still pointed at my head. I just swallow for the third time, waiting for our next instructions. 

They’re simple, when they come: just “Keep quiet,” followed by “You’re being robbed.”

The man with the gun then breaks out into a wide smile, the other robbers grinning and looming all around us, weapons rising to aim at our chests and heads. 

Which, okay. Cool. We’re being robbed. If they’re attempting to intimidate us, it’s definitely working. Hopefully it’s only intimidation. But maybe it’s not. Maybe in addition to robbing us they’re also planning to murder us. To just—stab us to death and leave us bleeding out on the carpet. I haven’t even had a legal drink yet, but here we are, being robbed and also possibly stabbed and murdered and yeah. 

Okay. 

Cool. 

Cool cool cool. 

Definitely not how I planned my night to go but okay. _Cool_.

As my thoughts stumble around like they, too, are drunk, I come to terms with the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m freaking out. Monty, halfway across the room, is _definitely_ freaking out. His pale face is nearly white, and he’s wearing an expression that makes it look like he’s about to throw up. 

My imagination decides just then that it’s time to visit me with the image of a crowbar striking, coming down on that expression while he’s wearing it. I wince inwardly, my mind filling with blood and viscera. It’s so easy to imagine. There’s nothing to distract me. Everybody is silent, so silent—

And then, from the silence, comes Felicity’s voice, piercing through me. “_Ha ha, Monty. So funny. Tell your friends hi for me_.”

I can’t help it—I flinch where I’m standing, closing my eyes against the inevitable retaliation. She’s doomed us, sealed our fate, and with a dozen words or less, to boot. Goodbye, world. It was pleasant while it lasted. I just wish I’d gotten to kiss Monty even once before my inevitable demise.

Which… doesn’t come. I crack one eye open. 

The robbers are still standing in formation, sporting various expressions of uncertainty as they look to the man with the gun, who I’m beginning to realize is something of their leader. The leader blinks, like he’s not sure what’s going on or what to do. “Miss, I think you’ve very much misjudged the situation,” he says after a long moment. Then he gestures with his free hand.

On cue, one of the men steps up behind Monty, sheathing his knife. Monty flinches, hard, as hands the size of hams rise and grab him by the arms. He lets out a strangled yelp, trying to squirm away a second too late. Felicity gasps.

“_Leave or I__’ll call the cops_,” she says then, an edge to her voice.

The man with the gun isn’t having it. “If you hang up this phone, we’ll stab your dear Monty to death and leave his Soulmate to choke and die,” he responds with hardly a thought. At another gesture, a handful of the robbers split off, some starting to tear through the livingroom and some heading for the bedrooms, going through our belongings for anything worth taking. Two of them start removing the TV from the wall. The man grins, as if he’s enjoying this. “Now keep talking so I know you’re still there.”

“…_Right_,” Felicity says, just the slightest waver to her voice. I’ve never heard her sound anything close to scared, but the threat of causing Monty’s death seems to have gotten her somewhere in the vicinity. Monty, meanwhile, looks astonished, as if it’s never occurred to him that his little sister genuinely cares for his well-being. He huffs a laugh, then winces backwards as one of the robbers raises an eyebrow at him.

This, I decide, would be a _great_ time for Lockwood to walk in. If his navy training would kick in and allow him to kick every robber ass all at once, that would also be swell. 

He doesn’t, however, and I find that it’s up to me to come up with a plan.

Because here’s the thing. These guys are serious, that much is clear. But serious, fortunately for us, doesn’t mean smart. They’re robbing an apartment building, for god’s sake. One good shout and the neighbors will call the cops. And if the cops come, well… the robbers’ only choice will be to run. The only real question is whether or not they’re serious enough to stab us to death _before_ they run.

I take the chance. I wait for my moment, and when it comes… when the leader gets distracted by a question from one of his men and the gun starts to fall… I take my shot and swing my fist with all my might.

It’s not a very good punch, I’ll admit that right now. The closest I’ve ever come to a decent fight was the time I took a pool cue to Richard Peele’s face after he outed Monty against his will. Our entire community turned on Monty just about overnight, and though he took it in stride, I knew it hurt. So the next time we played pool with dear old Dick I took it upon myself to exact revenge. Knocked out two of his teeth, too, which I’m still proud of. Still, it was haphazard enough a blow to pass it off as an accident.

I’m not trying to make this one look like an accident.

The robber howls, a sound more angry than hurt. Pain sings through my hand. I yell. He drops the gun. 

For a moment both of us pause there, watching it tumble round and round as it falls. The robber glances up at me. I glance up at him. Then, though my hand is still aching from the hit, I dive for the ground. 

I nearly have my fingers around the weapon when a foot in a boot comes down on it, pinning it to the floor. A hand then follows, latching onto my hair, and suddenly I’m being dragged upwards. I struggle, fighting tooth and nail, but I’m no match for the man hauling me up. “You made the wrong move, kid,” he snarls.

I stay silent, struggling to keep pressure off my scalp. I can only hope that someone has heard our struggle and managed to call 911. _God_ do I hope. 

Monty, meanwhile, has doubled over in the large man’s grasp. “What the hell did you do that for?! You’ve gone and broken your hand!” he says accusingly, surfacing to glare at me.

I glare back at him. God, can’t he just shut up?! “I have _not_,” I hiss. I wince as the hand in my hair tightens.

“Well, it _feels_ broken!”

“It’s my hand, I think I should know!”

The phone in Georgie’s hand takes this moment to pipe up with an, “_I trust Percy__’s judgment on this one_.”

“Would you all shut up?!” the guy now standing on the gun says. He glares down at me, teeth bared, as Monty shuts his mouth with a snap. He’s looking somewhat less than hospitable, and yeah, okay, maybe I miscalculated a little. Heroics are decidedly not my strong point. Monty is biting down on moans, curled up around his hand, and I have just long enough to wonder if my life will flash before my eyes before the man reaches down and the gun is pressed back to my temple. I screw up my face, waiting for the shot—it’s so close, will I even hear it? Or will the bullet lodge in my brain before I can even comprehend the sound?—but it doesn’t come.

Instead there’s Felicity’s voice, again, going, “…_Wait_.”

The men do not want to wait. They’re starting to get antsy, pillowcases full of goods held in their hands as they finish turning our place inside-out. “Enough screwing around, Scipio! Let’s shoot them, take their shit, and get out of here!” one of them says.

“_Go ahead_,” Felicity says back. 

Monty chokes, staring at the phone in horror. “Felicity! I know we’ve had our disagreements, but—”

“_Hush, Monty. They won__’t really do it_.”

“No? And why is that, Missy?” the man with the gun asks.

“_Because you need this to stay on the down low. A gunshot in a populated building will give you away, and then you__’ll never get out, let alone with anything worth stealing_. _And, in addition, you probably knew that going in_—_I doubt you even have bullets in that gun. It__’s probably just for show_.”

There’s a pause. Then the man—Scipio—starts to laugh. He lowers the gun again. “Ah, seems we’ve been found out, boys! It’s true—the gun is worthless. My _knife_, on the other hand…”

It’s with a wicked grin that he reaches down to his boot and pulls out a serrated hunting knife with a seven inch blade. Which, of _course_ he has. I could have smacked myself in the face. If the sudden movement wouldn’t get me stabbed, anyway.

Monty, apparently yet to sober in the slightest, hisses, “Oh, _now_ you’ve done it. Thanks, Felicity.”

“_Hey! I was trying to help_!”

“By provoking them?!”

“_How was I supposed to know he had a knife, too_?!”

Scipio's attention is rapt on Monty, watching the siblings’ spat go down. The look in his eyes is appraising, and I don’t like it one bit. If Monty would just _shut up_ the robbers could get their goods and leave us be. My… my violin is among the pile of things waiting by the door, and I’ll admit that that stings in a very tangible way, but in the end it’s only a violin. It’s not worth our lives.

I clear my throat. “Uh, Monty? Darling?”

He doesn’t hear me, instead choosing to groan loudly. “God, you are the _worst_. This is the twenty-seventeen state dinner all over again.”

Shit. _Shit_. There he goes with his big mouth. My tongue is like cotton as I watch the robber’s eyes go wide. “Monty!” I hiss, frantic for him to shut up.

Still, the siblings don’t stop—they’re on a roll, now, neither of them realizing exactly what has just happened.

“_For the last time, that wasn__’t my fault_!”

“Oh, so the senator just so happened to wander into that particular room at that particular time for no particular reason? Liar.”

“_You_—”

It’s here that Scipio decides to remind everyone of the situation that we’re in. “So you’re a rich kid, huh? The kid of someone important?” he asks Monty, waving the knife in his direction, all nonchalant. 

It takes Monty a moment to figure out what he means, and then he goes white as a sheet. “What? No! I’m not rich! I’m, like, dirt poor, I_ swear_—_oh god don__’t hurt me_—”

The robber is grinning a nasty grin. “Too late. Change of plans, lads—we’re taking these two hostage!”

A groan rises from among the other robbers. “Scip! We said no hostages!” one pipes up, and I silently thank the gods above.

Too soon, it seems. I grunt as I’m thrown unceremoniously to the floor. Scipio steps around me, approaching Monty. “Which is why it’s a _change_ of _plans_,” he says. He’s appraising Monty like a cut of meat, something calculating in his eyes. The other men don’t move for a long moment, glancing around at each other, and I’m tentatively starting to think that we might be safe after all, but then Scipio goes, "Ebrahim! Bring 'em here!" and the veritable giant behind Monty hoists him effortlessly off the floor. I wince at the pain of his grip on Monty’s arms. “To the bedroom! We’ll cut off a finger and mail it to dear mommy and daddy.”

Oh, god. I watch in horror as they start to drag Monty from the room, Felicity demanding that they unhand her brother all the while. Not that either of us can do anything—the moment I rise on my hands and knees to follow after them a foot comes down on my back, forcing me back to the floor. I feel like a small child, small and scared, as they disappear from sight. 

They’re still in earshot, however. “Wait,” Monty says at the end of the hall, slurring a little in his panic. “Hold up, wait, don’t you want to _talk about this_—”

Unfortunately for all of us, Monty’s talent lies less in talking his way out of things and more in talking himself and everyone around him _into_ them. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but Monty’s words will hurt both of us, and I have absolutely no faith that he’s going to get out of this with all his fingers attached. 

I grit my teeth, bracing for the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man IDK what I'm even doing. Like I have a plan but I can't tell if it's a good plan or if it's a mess. So I guess... let me know?


	6. The Cops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion to the night.

Okay. So here’s the situation, as I understand it.

Our apartment, 17b, was chosen at random by a band of house-robbers who have since cock-blocked me from possibly the best kiss of my young life, ransacked the place, threatened everyone inside with death and bodily harm, taken us hostage, and are now planning to cut off important appendages in order to collect a ransom from the governor. In a surprise twist (not), my pure of heart, dumb of ass Soulmate has been taken down the hall to part with said appendages, leaving me behind to walk a mental widow’s walk and wait with bated breath for the pain I know is coming. 

We do not know if help will arrive in time. We do not know when this nightmare will end. We do not know why fate brought this calamity down on us in the first place, which of our numerous past misdeeds we are paying for. We may never know these things. 

All in all… things are not looking good for us at this juncture in time.

I mull this over as I wait for the pain of a knife severing one of Monty’s fingers. I wonder idly which one they’ll choose. A pinky? A ring finger? God forbid it’s the thumb—hopefully, the robbers are kind enough to leave Monty, my dearest Monty, with opposable thumbs.

I’m at the stage of dread where I’m imagining life without either thumb—god, imagine buttoning your pants without _thumbs_—when I hear them: sirens, in the distance, growing closer and closer.

Thank _god_. Someone in the building must have heard the commotion and come to our rescue. I’ve never been more grateful for our paper-thin walls than I am right at this moment. The cops are coming. They’re _coming_.

Which would be, to most people in our situation, a good thing. 

…Monty is not most people.

“Shit, cops!” I hear him yell. The robbers around me all look around toward the bedroom, as do I. There are more voices, rising in conjunction with the sirens. A moment later the group that split off for the finger-amputation appears again, Monty now good and panicked, and not, as I think he should be, about the fact that he nearly lost a body part. His face is white as he stumbles and crouches down next to me, moaning all the while. The leader of the robbers goes to the livingroom window and leans against the glass, trying to see the lights that accompany the sirens as Monty says, “Percy. Percy, I’m _drunk_.”

“Okay?” I say. I glare at the man behind me until he lifts his foot, allowing me to sit up on my knees. “So, you’re drunk. What does it matter?”

“The cops are gonna _know_.”

Feeling a little as if I’m talking to a preschooler, I look pointedly around us at the robbers, who are shifting uneasily as they wait for instruction from their leader. “And _why does that matter_?” I ask.

“It’ll go in the incident report and some reporter will get wind of it and dig it up and it’ll get out and father will _kill me_.”

“_I don__’t think that’s how that works_,” Felicity says from the phone. “_Also, in case anyone was wondering, I was not the one who called 911_.”

“It is exactly how that works! Fuck, we need a plan.”

This is ridiculous. “The plan is to let the cops take care of this,” I hiss pointedly, at the same time that Felicity goes, “_Cops good! Robbers bad! Why do I need to spell this out for you_!”

Monty isn’t listening. He’s instead calling out to Scipio, the leader of the robbers, in order to broker a deal that will get us all out of this mess at once.

Have I mentioned yet that my Soulmate is a _dumbass_?

“You can’t be serious,” I say, a last-ditch effort to convince him to see reason.

“It’ll work out fine! And—and—your violin! They won’t take your violin if we do this! Right, guys? Guys?”

The robbers are too busy muttering angrily among themselves to respond. I stare at Monty. “It’s just a violin,” I say. My voice comes out low and calm, though it wrenches something in my heart to say it. Because it’s true. I’d rather lose the last remnant of my late father than bargain on a bunch of robbers and watch it all go sideways.

“_Please_, Percy,” Monty begs. 

I close my eyes. This is _Monty_ asking me, and I have never been able to say no to him. It’s my fatal flaw. My ultimate weakness. My inevitable downfall. I open my eyes and lock gazes with his pleading eyes for one final second and then…

“What’s the plan?” I grit out.

I’m going to regret this. Kind of do already, as Monty and Scipio come together and start whispering back and forth. I pipe up to make sure that all our bases are covered—that they won’t hurt us and they’ll leave us and our belongings alone after this—and in exchange, we promise not to press charges. Felicity pitches in a few concerns, as well—“_You__’re not very good robbers, are you_?”—but in the end, we have all that plus the house straightened out by the time the cops are knocking at the door.

“You are a right stupid motherfucker to think that this is going to work,” Scipio whispers, glancing toward the couch, where all the weapons are stashed. Monty flashes a grin. Then, with a twirl of his hand, he gestures for me to open the door.

“Someone called about a noise disturbance,” is the first thing out of the cop’s mouth. There’s two of them at the door, hands at their belts. Their eyes are suspicious as they look beyond me at the crowd of men stuffed into our livingroom.

“Oh, were we being loud?” Monty says. He’s safely tucked into a chair at the far side of the room, sipping at a glass of water. He smiles and flippantly says, “Sorry about that, it was a very spirited game of Mario Kart.” 

The cops stare. I try and smile. I’m sweating through my shirt, desperately hoping that they won’t ask why the TV isn’t even on. Or maybe I’m hoping they will. I’m not really sure what I want at this point. My head is spinning a little—the adrenaline is slowly seeping out of my system, leaving me feeling slow and weak, Monty’s high buzzing distantly in my head. I don’t dare step back into the room lest I stumble.

“You sure that’s the story you’re going with, son?” the other cop says finally.

“Story? What story?” Monty asks lightly. “Is it a crime to have some friends over?”

He’s going to get us killed, I swear he is. Or at least me and/or a few of the robbers, anyway. I twitch as one of the cops rests a hand right on his gun.

For a long moment, we’re at a stalemate. Then the first cop nods his head, gives us a warning to keep our noses clean, and gestures to his partner to leave us be.

I nearly collapse backward in relief. God, I feel like I need to put my head between my knees. I manage to close the door and then a low cheer is rising from the robbers and Monty is grinning from ear to ear and thank _god_ that’s over.

I sit on the floor as Monty raises his phone to tell Felicity that the coast is clear. I’m not sure who’s idea it is, but after a moment Monty disappears into his room and comes out with a wad of cash that he offers to the band of robbers.

The big guy scoffs. Scipio’s mouth twists. Georgie, however, takes the cash, tucking it away into a pocket.

“_Is all the excitement over now_?” Felicity asks. “_Because I called for a reason_.”

“You did?” Monty asks. He then makes a series of increasingly disgusted faces as she tells him that she’s been helping out in the school’s kitchen because she needed some excitement in her life and that today one of the cooks cut the tip of his finger off. I’d have laughed at his expression-journey if the idea of stitching together a finger didn’t make me feel slightly queasy after the events of the night. 

Felicity is just telling Monty that he’s not allowed to be squeamish about blood because he’s had periods before when there’s a shuffle beside me. The robbers are beginning to get to their feet, standing around awkwardly. 

“—_and did you know that Pain Pals can suffer spontaneous amputations when their Soulmate loses a limb? It__’s wild—likely Percy would have lost his finger, too, if_—”

“We’ll be on our way now,” Scipio says abruptly, cutting her off. He turns to leave.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up. You’re not leaving yet. You owe us a thank you, at least,” Monty responds, lowering the phone. I can practically hear Felicity rolling her eyes on the other end of the line.

“I owe you nothing,” the robber spits. “You did it to save your own hide.”

“My own hide—?!” Monty starts.

I clap him on the shoulder, getting in the middle before we’re returned to our previous state as hostages. I’d rather like for us to keep all our fingers after all. “I’ve had enough fighting for the next century,” I say. “Can we agree that we’re both better off now than we were when the cops came?”

Both Monty and Scipio grumble a yes. 

“Good. Now the question stands—what now?”

“Now,” says Lockwood from the door, “You explain just what the _hell_ you think you’re doing.”

Oh, shit.

“Uh—”

“We were just—”

Lockwood cuts us both off. “I don’t want to hear it.” He steps into the room, flapping his hands at the robbers, going, “All of you, _out_. The party is over! Go home!” 

The robbers trade a few confused glances before sidling out the door. I, meanwhile, resist the urge to groan. Of course. Of _course_. Lockwood would miss all the excitement, arrive _after_ the attempted robbery and the cops’ call, and walk in just in time to assume that the robbers still in the apartment are there because we invited them over to party.

Oh my god.

This is the dumbest night of my life.

And it just gets dumber as Lockwood then starts searching our ransacked-and-hastily-put-back-together rooms, uncovering Monty’s alcohol stash. “What’s this?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. He then stalks to the kitchen, uncaps a bottle of vodka, and tips it into the sink.

I can practically feel Monty vibrating beside me. This is not going to end well.

“It seems as if I’ve been rather lenient on the two of you,” Lockwood says, frowning at us both after he’s done pouring out every last drop of Monty’s stash. “I thought keeping an eye on Mr. Montague would be enough to deter any nefarious activity. Apparently I was wrong. You, Percy Newton, are just as much at fault as he.”

It’s a bit of a blow to my pride, to be chastised alongside Monty as if any of the shenanigans we got into tonight were my idea. I deal with it, however, because it’s true, I do go along with Monty more often than not.

Lockwood sighs, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Suddenly he looks bone-weary, as if it was he who faced off with a bunch of cops and would-be robbers tonight. “Look… I don’t want to keep lecturing you. I’ve done enough of that already,” he says. “I just… want you to understand. Henry, your father… he wants good things for you. He doesn’t want you to lead a life of vice and sin because it’s a terrible life to live.”

Monty sneers petulantly. “As if. My father just doesn’t want me to ruin his reputation.”

Lockwood shakes his head. And then, so quietly that I have to strain my ears a little to hear him, he says, “If my father were still here on this earth, I’d be doing everything I could to make him proud. I can’t understand why you won’t do the same.”

Monty’s mouth opens, probably to say that not every father deserves to be made proud. I elbow him lightly, shaking my head just slightly. “Yes, sir,” I say. “We understand.”

“I know you do, Percy,” he says, with a sad smile. Then he leaves us in the middle of a small forest of empty bottles, all alone with the feeling that we’ve gone and messed up.

It’s not a good feeling.

All at once I realize my hands are shaking—I fall onto the couch, running them over my face. I’m exhausted. More than exhausted. Spent, drained, overdrawn, overdrafted. If I could exit my body at will I’d be gone in a heartbeat.

“I don’t get it,” Monty says, forcing me back into the moment.

I blow out a breath and look over at my Soulmate. He’s biting his lip, his eyes down. I’m not sure exactly what his expression means—there’s too much packed in to decipher it all. 

“Don’t get what?” I ask, though I already know what he means.

“I—just—Lockwood! All that mumbo-jumbo about making his dad proud or whatever. What does that have to do with me? And the damn robbers! Why couldn’t they just give me a thank you or something?!”

I sigh. I feel like I’ve aged ten years in the span of one night. “Look,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. “When circumstance backs you into a corner, and you can’t do anything about it, watching someone do the exact opposite of what you want or need is… hard. It’s the hardest thing in the world.”

“So suck it up!”

I close my eyes. “Monty. You can’t just ‘suck up’ the frustration that comes with grief or poverty or whatever. You get that, don’t you?”

I can hear the pout in his voice. “I mean, I guess, but it still doesn’t make it my problem.”

I want to feel for him. I really do. But I’m just about out of Monty Empathy for the night and I really, _really_ need to just go to sleep. I’m pushing up to the edge of a seizure and wouldn’t that just be the cherry on the top of this entire night? To think that once upon a time my only concern in life was whether to put my lips to Monty’s…

I sigh again. Then I say goodnight, head off to my room, and hope for a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'D


	7. The Kiss

I’m not sure what it is, exactly, that makes Monty so desire alcohol and clubs and dancing, sometimes to the exclusion of all else. I can, however, hazard a guess, and that guess is that it has something to do with processing. 

He collects ugly things, see. Fear and hatred and self-loathing. And when they become too much inside of him they need to come out. Talking won’t do it, and neither will some simple hobby such as my violin playing. So, alcohol it is. It’s like bloodletting, letting out the bad humors that coalesce in the veins. 

As such, Monty tends to get… moody… when he hasn’t had a drink in a while.

Take now, for instance.

“Monty,” I say, for what must be the fourth time in four minutes. “For god’s sake, would you sit still?”

The gremlin perched on the chair in front of me grunts. “Bite me. I’m not even moving.”

“You are.”

“Fuck off.”

With an exasperated puff of air through my teeth, I clip up a section of his hair with the decisive _snap_ of a hair clip. “I’ll get bleach on your shirt,” I warn.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Do it. I dare you.”

Fine, maybe I will. I tsk through my teeth, giving him a little flick on the back of the neck. I sigh all the way through loading up a hair-coloring brush with bleach paste, then plant my hand on the top of his head to hold him still myself as I brush the goop onto his roots.

A little over a week post-attempted-robbery and eight days after Monty’s last drink, we are well into moody-times. We haven’t talked at all about what nearly happened the night of the robbery—the kiss, not the finger amputation—but I’m beginning to doubt that we ever will. He was about to let me kiss him, I swear he was, but the longer we go without addressing it the less sure I am whether or not it’s all in my head. What if he was just drunk and slow? What if he was about to pull back? I may never know, and it’s driving me insane.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says. “You’ve been quiet all damn week. You’re not still mad about the fact that I wanted a thank you, are you?”

“I was never mad. I just—you need to understand that you miss nuance sometimes. I love you and all, but it’s… not your strong point,” I say. I keep going with the bleach goop as I talk, coating his roots as evenly as I can. He’s always said that blondes have more fun, but I’m beginning to doubt that just on the merits—few and far between—of the past week.

“It is too a strong point of mine! I’m the king of nuance. It’s _you_ people who make no damn sense all the time.”

Moody, moody, moody. I dare not make any further comment on nuance for fear of being snapped at, though I do flick him again. If this keeps up he’s going to have a mark on the back of his neck. Not the kind of mark I want to leave, but fuck, maybe this is all I’ll ever get. Maybe it’s time to resign myself to my fate.

So I do. I finish spreading all the goop on Monty’s hair, ignore his one hundred watt pout, and go about the business of getting on with my life. I go to orchestra practices and help Lockwood with the grocery shopping and try to let things settle back in the dust so that maybe, someday, we’ll be allowed to leave the house unsupervised once again.

This is where I am, mentally speaking, when I see Georgie, the youngest of the robbers, waiting for me outside one of my classes.

“Hi,” he says. “Is, um… is Monty with you?”

“No, but I can call him up real quick,” I say, pulling out my phone.

He nods his head, one hand reaching forward. He falters before he touches my skin, guilty. He shuffles where he stands for a long second, casting quick glances up at me through his thick hair.

“…Here, I’ll buy us something to drink,” I say, shifting my violin on my back, and start to walk toward the campus cafe.

He orders simple, just a cup of black coffee with some sugar and cream. I’m not a fan of coffee myself—the caffeine causes seizures if I’m not careful—so I ask for a cup of their house tea, today a pomegranate mint special.

I wait until we’re settled at a table and I’ve texted Monty to let him know where I am before I ask Georgie what’s up, why he came to see me.

He takes a deep breath, looking up at me once more. I’m struck by just how young he is—he can’t be more than sixteen. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t, uh, mad at Scip? For what he—we—did?”

A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. But no, I’m not mad at the robbers just like I’m not mad at Monty. I sigh. “I will admit that Monty isn’t pleased, but… I get it,” I say, stirring my tea. I want to say that we’ve all been there, but really… we haven’t. Monty and I, we’ve never been anywhere close. I have my aunt and uncle to thank for that, for taking me in instead of sending me into foster care after my father’s death. I’m an outlier in our social circle for the color of my skin, but don’t get me wrong here, I still belong to a higher class than most of the people I meet on a daily basis. I’ll be graduating with no debt, assuming I don’t do anything heinous enough to be sent to an asylum for.

And Monty… Monty’s relationship with his father is what it is, but that doesn’t exclude him from the ranks of the privileged. 

I’ve been thinking about that a lot since the would-be robbery. Honestly… even if they _had_ managed to rob us, we still wouldn’t be hurting. I’d be a bit heartbroken about the loss of a family heirloom, but violins aren’t hard to come by and I’d be able to replace it without too much difficulty. Am I upset that they scared us and threatened us? A little. I’ve had dreams about the look on Monty’s face when Scipio’s knife was aimed at him, when the one called Ebrahim had his hands all over him. It wasn’t pleasant, and I’d love to never go through that again.

But in the end? How it all worked out? I’m kind of glad.

So I tell that to Georgie, who in turn tells me about migrant work in the orchards. They were doing fine without visas until one of their brothers got sick—now they’re dealing with medical fees and threats of deportation and all kinds of other things that I can hardly imagine. By now we’ve been joined by Monty and a few of the other robbers, Scipio among them. Monty is still in a funk, sitting silently back with a small pout on his face, but he listens, and as he does I see the moment that it all hits home for him. That realization of ‘oh, sometimes people have to choose between saving face and putting food on the table, and it’s not an easy choice’. 

I’m proud, in a soft, shake-my-head kind of way, when Monty apologizes for his assumptions. Scipio apologizes, as well, and Monty offers our help fixing up the old house the robbers are squatting in. It’s not much, but it’s something. We clear it with Lockwood with the promise of at least two check-ins throughout the afternoon, and head out.

When we arrive, I stop at the edge of the drive, admiring the house. The _Eleftheria_ they’ve been calling it. Greek for Freedom. It’s a beautiful old structure, though it’s fallen into disrepair. It’s also home to at least a dozen men, all of whom crowd onto the porch as we come closer.

“Is that a fiddle?” one of them asks as Scipio leads us to the door, tapping the strap over my shoulder. I nod. His sun-kissed face breaks into a wide smile. “Hey! If I sing you something, do you think you could play it?”

I’m not sure, but I’m game to try. Or at least… I would be. “I came to help paint,” I say honestly, but Scipio shakes his head.

“You can play for us. We’d like that just as much.”

So I do. While Monty gets schooled in the art of using a paint roller I listen to the melodies the men all around me eagerly sing and try to replicate them on my violin. I couldn’t tell you much about the songs themselves, not even what countries they originated in, but I can tell when I start to pick them up and the men lean back and close their eyes that it reminds them of home. 

I look over at Monty, then, just a glance. He’s paused with a paint roller raised, looking at Scipio very seriously. I can’t understand what they’re saying over the sound of my violin, but Monty looks comfortable enough so I leave them be and continue playing. Dance music and soulful lullabies… jaunty tunes and slow hymns… it feels like I play it all, and by the time we’re packing up to go, Lockwood waiting in the front to pick us up, I feel like I, too, am home.

I think about that on our way back to the apartment, Monty picking at a streak of paint at my side. It’s funny, that our first true friends at college are a band of thieves, but it’s oddly fitting, in a way. Neither Monty nor I have ever truly fit in, not at home or at college. Of course we’d find a place among misfits.

And of course, we’d find it together.

Which brings me to the worst mistake I’ve ever made, and the repercussions thereof: the kiss. Oh, the kiss…

It doesn’t happen for a good long while. We sneak out the first chance we get, a chance that doesn’t arise until the first week of December, just before finals. Lockwood is taken down by the flu and asks us not to bother him while he sleeps, which gives us ample opportunity to silently make our way out the door and to a club downtown.

We flash our fake IDs at the door and get to our first order of business: drinking. Monty considers the assortment of bottles behind the counter while I nod my head to the music. A moment later a cup finds its way to my hand—whiskey, an interesting choice. I take a sip and make a face.

And then, without further ado, we’re dancing. 

I’ll be the first to say—dancing isn’t my best skill. I’m made of 70% limb—my arms are too long to know what to do with. Monty, six inches shorter than me and of perfect proportions, has a much easier time figuring out what to do with his limbs than I do. I know he sometimes has moments when he hates his body, hates his height, hates his voice, but… he’s the perfect counterpart to me and my awkwardness. His head slots just so under my chin when we share a bed. We fit well together. And when we’re dancing, it’s like we’re the only two beings in the entire world.

It ends all too soon. The drinking can only sustain so much dancing before I need a break. We split off from the bouncing crowd, heading for the lounge area where we find ourselves on the topic of poetry and the difficulty of composing it.

“It’s not so easy,” is my argument.

“Of course it is. Watch,” is his response. “There once was a fellow named Percy,” he says. A strong start. 

There he pauses, a frown creasing his brow. I wait for the rest, a smile playing on my face. “Well?” I ask.

“Hush. I’m thinking.” 

He then spends an inordinate amount of time scrolling down his phone screen, his tongue pinched between his teeth.

“Google can’t find anything that rhymes with Percy, can it?” I hum.

He blows out a breath, catching a strand of his blond hair. “No. Google has failed me. Oh no wait! Wait, I’ve found something! Mercy! There once was a fellow named Percy / And something something, ah, mercy?”

I sip at my whiskey, which has started to go down easier, trying to keep a smug smile off my face as I say, “There was a young fellow I knew / Named Henry Montague.”

He huffs. “Well, that’s not fair. Everything rhymes with my surname. _Blue. Chew. Mutton stew_.”

I keep going. “He drinks lots of liquor / And never gets sicker…” I pause there, enjoying having his attention directly on me, before finishing, “And he’s four inches longer than you.”

It’s exactly as I’d hoped it would be. He only takes a second to work his way around the dirty joke, and then he bursts out laughing. He’s the most beautiful thing on the earth when he laughs like that—head thrown back, hand on his stomach, flush rising up his cheeks. If I were a sculptor rather than a violinist I’d spend an entire lifetime trying to capture that look in marble so as to have it immortalized forever. 

He wipes his eyes. “Oh, _god_… I’m going to post that to twitter.”

The smile drops from my face. I may only have forty followers on twitter but one of them is my aunt, and if he tags me then she’ll _see it_. “Don’t you dare,” I say, grabbing for his phone.

“Don’t you want to share it with the world? Lockwood would love it!” he says.

I sink down in my chair in mortification. “God, I will never speak to you again if you post that.”

“Perhaps I’ll have the phone read it out to me as I fall asleep tonight.”

I kick at his chair, nearly spilling him onto the floor. “Ass.”

“Do another,” he prompts, giddy and laughing.

And it’s Monty who asks, and Monty who I answer to. Again, my downfall is Monty asking something of me. As such, I start without hardly a thought.

“Monty often smells of piss.”

“Well this one sucks so far.”

“But is very good with a tryst.”

“Better.”

“Though Lockwood may doubt him / There’s something about him / That everyone just wants to…”

I can’t finish it. I’m in too deep, my inebriation mingling with the Bond-high from Monty to produce a cacophonous amount of static and lost inhibitions in my head. I bite my tongue, flushing deep.

Monty, meanwhile, is smiling. “Go on, Percy.”

“What?” I say, playing dumb.

“Finish it.”

“Finish what?”

“Your poem.”

“My what?”

“The rhyme, moron.”

“Does it rhyme? I didn’t realize. Oh, wait… I hear it now.”

He’s so close, eyes locked on me. “Come on, what were you going to say?” he wheedles.

“Nothing, don’t remember.”

“Yes you do. Go on. Finish it or I’ll start singing the song that never ends.”

“Ah. Bit of a tough choice.”

His foot finds my leg, pressing against it. The feeling is heady, rising through me straight to my groin. “That everyone just wants to what, Percy? What is it exactly that everyone wants to do to me?”

I can tell that I’m blushing, hard, though the darkness of the club and the melanin in my skin hopefully hides most of it. “Fine,” I say, and then… “Though Lockwood may doubt him / There’s something about him / That everyone just wants to kiss.”

I don’t know what possesses me to say it aloud. Thinking it was quite enough. 

And then, to put the final nail in my coffin, I glance down at his lips.

And he leans forward and captures my lips with his.

And he kisses me.

And I kiss back.

And I think I’m going to fall apart at the seams, I want it so goddamn _much_, but even as I’m pushing my tongue into his mouth and climbing into his lap a small part of me is telling me to stop because I don’t know if he really wants me or if he just wants a good fuck.

It hurts, the idea that he doesn’t want _me_, in a way that makes me pull back. He pushes forward, chasing my lips until I tell him to stop. “Is this just a laugh to you?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and my heart leaps, but then he says, “Yes. I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

And I’m spinning, reeling, my heart pumping alcohol through my veins and I feel so small and lost. He leans in again and I just—I can’t. “Don’t,” I say. _Don__’t hurt me_, I mean. _Don__’t play with my heart_. _Don__’t smile with those dimples and say in the next breath that leaves your lungs that I’m just like everyone else_.

I’m not sure what he hears, but it’s certainly not that. It’s not anything close. He disentangles himself from me, shoves me from his lap, and says, “fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s never been fine. It will never be fine again. We get a Lyft back home and I go to bed still reeling, reeling, reeling because I’ve done it—I’ve lost my Soulmate, my Pain Pal, and my best friend, all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. FUCK ME, MAN.


	8. The Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty does what Monty does best.

Things are stilted the next morning. Monty is drunk by breakfast, though not seriously so—not serious enough for me to join him except as a light buzz. He must have snuck out after I was in bed to go buy a bottle or two. 

We both keep our distance. He avoids me and I avoid him, he stays drunk and I hate myself for what happened… it works out. Until about 3pm on Sunday, the day before finals begin, that is. That’s when Lockwood’s friend arrives to take us to the local holiday parade.

“Nnngh,” Lockwood says, shuffling in behind me as I answer the door. He’s still not in the best of shape—I may or may not have been using him as an excuse to go out to the corner store for flu supplies in order to put more distance between me and Monty. 

His friend, an Adam Worthington, looks on in concern from the doorway. “You sure you’re up for this? I can take the undergrads and let you have the afternoon off from babysitting,” he says.

Lockwood dithers for a moment, ignoring the face I make at the word ‘babysitting’. Then he sighs. “I suppose I could use another day in bed. You sure you can handle them?”

“Oh, sure! We’ll have a great time! I’ll introduce them to everyone worth knowing,” Worthington says, grinning. 

I try not to dislike people so quickly after meeting them but there’s something in his smile that seems not-quite-sincere. Worse, I can imagine the exact face Monty would make to poke fun at the guy. I want to crawl into a hole and sleep for a century.

Alas, it’s not to be. “Henry!” Lockwood calls. “If you don’t want to be late to the parade you should be getting ready right about now.”

Monty appears a moment later, clearly out of sorts. His hair is unbraided, his shirt wrinkled, and I can smell vodka on him. Thank god Lockwood is still congested, honestly. “That’s today?” Monty stage whispers to Lockwood, who only gives him a Look in response.

It stings a little when Monty climbs into the front seat of Worthington’s car instead of riding in the back with me like he always does, but I brush it off. I need space and time to suture up the cracks in my heart, I reassure myself as we set off. The distance is good for both of us. Enough distance and maybe we’ll eventually return to life as it was before The Kiss. Right?

God, I hope so. Two days without our usual casual contact and I feel like I’m slowly falling apart.

I manage to contain all the fractured pieces of myself long enough to arrive at the street that we’ll be watching the parade from. We still have a good hour before the parade itself will be coming through, during which time Worthington has apparently decided to walk us through the gauntlet of important frat boys. I do my best to be polite—Monty, on Worthington’s other side, does the exact opposite.

“Ah, there’s Duke Bourbon. He’s in the Chi Phi fraternity,” Worthington is saying now, his cheeks pink from the cold. “Was recently passed up for captain of the college football team so be kind and don’t mention football in your conversation—it’s still a bit of a sore spot.”

I hum a vague agreement. Monty, if I’m not mistaken, is swiping his way through Tinder, not paying an iota of attention to what he should or should not be mentioning. I resist the urge to elbow him in the side—that would mean touching him, and touching Monty is strictly off-limits until further notice.

Worthington, either willfully ignorant about our awkwardness or willing to pretend so, waves and intercepts Duke Bourbon before he can pass us by. By all accounts, it’s an uncomfortable situation—Worthington clearly thinks he and Bourbon are friends, while Bourbon clearly wants nothing to do with us. Monty still isn’t paying attention and Worthington is looking more and more put out by the second and I’ve just about had enough of holding up conversations all on my own so I do the only thing I can do at the moment—I step on Monty’s foot and give him a Look worthy of Lockwood.

“What the hell?” he says, just loud enough to make Worthington glare. 

I keep my voice light as I say, “Would it kill you to be polite for once in your life?” 

Bourbon is busy scouting out the crowd for some of his friends, thankfully, and doesn’t notice our squabbling. Monty rolls his eyes over at him and then back to me in a very dramatic display and I think I’ve had enough of him for the day. The week. Maybe the entire month. Whether I’ll be okay to be in proximity with him by Christmas remains to be seen.

“I’m going to go find a bathroom,” I say through gritted teeth, then force my way past Worthington and Monty both. My arm swipes Monty’s and we both flinch away at the same moment. 

God, how can the distance hurt in an entirely new way every time it happens? 

I don’t know, but I keep going, just putting foot in front of foot to put as much distance between me and him as is physically possible. I’ll splash some water on my face, gather my wits about me, and… and… I don’t know, find a way to numb my emotions?

I sigh. That sounds a little too much like what Monty is doing with the alcohol. I don’t deign to understand exactly why he’s drinking right now—sharing a single kiss with me can’t have been _that_ emotionally scarring—but he is and even now his high swims through my veins like a distant hum. 

With a low groan, I give myself ten minutes. Ten minutes, and then I’ll return to the land of bad jokes from Worthington and disinterest from everyone else. I’ll carry the conversation on my back like a good friend, and then, at the first chance I get, I’ll take my violin to the practice rooms on campus and play for a good five hours all on my own, with no one around me scrolling Tinder or talking to frat boys or blowing their stuffy nose or anything else. It’ll be just me and the sheet music, and it will be wonderful. I just have to get through this parade.

The first hint I get that things have already gone wrong and I’m too late to ‘just get through this’ is the fact that when I find Worthington in the crowd he’s all alone, and his head is in his hand.

“What happened?” I ask, well aware that ten minutes is more than long enough for Monty to have fucked everything up. One would hope that he could keep his ire in his pants for ten minutes, but alas, I’ve been proven wrong many a time.

Worthington shakes his head, a bad sign. “Duke mentioned something about Montague the Senior and, well… it seems Henry ‘had enough’. He tore Duke a new one and left for god knows where.”

Of course he did. He probably found a willing date on Tinder and threw the conversation on purpose, getting us uninvited to every Greek Life event from now until the end of our college days in the meantime. Figures.

It is what it is. I’m not feeling the parade anymore, but I don’t much feel anything else so I stick it out. Worthington and I stand in relative silence for the remainder of the wait. He introduces me to a few more people, but the increasing Bond-high from Monty stops me from getting too deep into the conversations. I feel unsteady on my feet, like my limbs are dragging me down. An undergrad with a face-full of freckles—objectively cute, in a freckled kind of way—stops beside me and attempts to talk to me, but I’m not really feeling that, either. I respond to be polite, taking his number when he gives it, already knowing I’ll never use it.

“How long until the parade?” I ask then, glancing down the street in the direction they’re supposed to come from. Instead of catching a glimpse of distant lights and the marching band, I find Monty’s retreating form. 

I was right on the nose. He’s linked arms with a modelesque young woman in a high-waisted skirt and thigh-high brown boots. He’s looking back at me—when he catches my eye his expression is flippant, and he rolls his eyes with a small smile as if to say ‘_hey, what can you do_?’

It’s like he’s calculated that look to hurt me the most. I feel it like a knife in my side, the thought that our kiss actually sincerely meant nothing to him. He’s bounced back spectacularly, found someone to replace me with just like that. And the worst part is that I can’t do much of anything about it. What kind of Pain Pal would I be if I actively obstructed his search for his Pleasure Bond, his romantic Soulmate? The shitty, controlling kind, is the answer to that. I breathe in through my nose and let him go, distinctly not watching as he enters one of the dorm buildings across the way. I instead devote my attention to the floats and decorated cars beginning to crest the hill. The sound of the marching band is a decent distraction—I make it a game with myself to see how fast I can name the notes.

The parade is about halfway through and I’m finally starting to enjoy myself when it all comes crashing down around our ears, by which I mean that Monty does what he does best—namely, finds the worst situation he can possibly find and gets himself, and by extension me, deep into trouble. Why I expect anything else of him at this point I sincerely don’t know. It’s a flaw, really—I love him and therefore believe the best of him at all times, even when all evidence points to the contrary.

Evidence like a reporter standing a few feet away from me suddenly snapping a dozen pictures in the span of a few seconds, a gleeful look on her face.

“Oh, god…” Worthington says, staring aghast out at something in the middle of the parade. It takes me a moment to follow his gaze, but then I see it—_Monty_. Stark naked aside from a nude-colored binder, clothing bundled up over his junk, powerwalking_ through_ the parade to come to our side. On the far side of the floats a commotion has broken out—our dear friend Duke Bourbon has been halted on the sidewalk, screaming something about Monty fucking his sister.

“Hello, Worthington. Percy. I think it’s time to go now,” Monty says, ignoring the fact that Worthington looks like he’s about to pop a capillary or ten. He then glances behind him, sees Duke, winces, and clears his throat, nodding his head toward the side street where the car is parked.

I don’t move. I’m frozen, staring, trying to process what I’m seeing.

Monty is… nude. 

And fairly drunk.

Cold, too, judging by the fact that he just powerwalked through December slush and he’s, oh yeah, _not wearing any clothes_.

Why. Just… why.

It’s the sound of multiple cameras going off that gets me moving. I shed my coat and wrap it around Monty’s shoulders, giving him a swift shove away from the parade. Worthington follows behind us, snapping at the cameras to back off or he’ll sue them, a threat that I’m not sure is legitimate. It certainly doesn’t seem to give the reporters and various rubber-neckers any pause as phones come up to record Monty’s progress across the sidewalk.

Monty, for his part, is taking this well in stride. He smiles his way through the crowd, apologizing to the mothers that drag their children away from him until he’s finally far enough from the crowd to shove the bundle of his clothing at me and start pulling on his pants. I avert my eyes until he’s clothed, staring up at the sky until he tosses my coat back at me and throws himself into the back of Worthington’s car.

“Well,” he says, once we’re all buckled. “That was certainly now how I wanted _that_ to go.” He then grins, showing off his dimples. Still drunk, still flippant, and very much not comprehending the situation he’s just put us in… all par for the course with Monty.

I don’t respond, and the car descends into silence. I sit back and stare out the window and suddenly my thoughts are swarming inside me because I’m realizing, now, that I’m just… such an idiot? I just… I thought, that night, that he cared for me as much as I cared for him. I thought, for just an instant, that I _mattered_. I can’t believe how wrong I was. Monty doesn’t care about anything—he’d throw away sanity for any random passerby on the street, so long as he got a good lay out of it. I was just another john to him. Does he care that we’ve lost something precious? Does he even realize? I don’t know. I don’t think so. And that, more than anything, nearly brings me to tears right there.

I manage to hold myself together until we’re home, and then I stalk to my room, close the door, and pull out my violin. I try not to play when I’m upset or Bond-high, just because I don’t want to accidentally be careless with the instrument, but sometimes I just… I need something that won’t make the pain worse. Something that won’t embarrass me or make me feel stupid, something I can trust. 

I pour my soul into the music for a while, letting it wash over me. It’s good—it cleans away all the sticky emotions locked in my chest, gives me time to think things through and come to terms with the fact that I can’t expect my feelings to be reciprocated. I can’t expect my love to be mirrored in Monty—he’s never shown interest in me. I’m the sinful one here, I’m the one who’s broken Fate’s design by falling for my Pain Pal. We aren’t Pleasure Partners and we never will be. And I… I need to be okay with that or it’ll tear me apart.

I’m stronger than that. This is not the thing that will break me. I’ve decided. After all I’ve been through in my life… losing both parents before the age of three, being diagnosed with epilepsy at sixteen, having to hide parts of myself away for years upon years… it would be a shame to break because of this.

So I won’t.

I have myself more under control by the time I emerge from my room for dinner. Lockwood is laying into Monty about the whole debacle—he’s been going strong for a while, by the sound of it. He’s worked himself up into a fine apoplectic state, his face a deep red. I sidle around the two of them, setting the table and pretending I’m not listening.

Well, at least until Lockwood says, “I’ve called your father and told him what you’ve done.” And then, on the tail of that: “God, it’s no wonder he’s so disappointed in you.”

Even I can feel the sting of those words. Lockwood immediately looks like he’d like to go back in time and shove them back inside, but the damage has already been done, in more ways than one.

“Well, in that case,” Monty says lightly, and turns on his heel. I wince, knowing already what he’s going to do: drink, and in excess. Whether it’s an attempt to flush the thought of his father’s disappointment from his mind or a last hurrah before his father sends Sinclair to collect him I’m not sure, but one thing is certain—I won’t be studying tonight and neither will he.


	9. Mr. Montague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen.

It’s hard to explain exactly what a Soulbond feels like. As a species, we’re at a point where science can explain the physical effects of a Bond, what happens in the body and the brain etc… but science, for all its advancements, doesn’t have words for the feeling of knowing someone’s body, the pain or pleasure within it, as well as your own. Science can’t explain the inexplicable nature of a Soulbond. Many poets and writers better than I have tried, as well, but the results are mostly flowery metaphors. There are genres dedicated to Soulbonds, all of them chock full of overused similes. We just don’t have the language to explain something ineffable. It’s impossible. 

Unfortunately for us all, however, I’m high enough from Monty’s drunkenness to make an attempt.

Because it’s what I imagine phantom limb pain would be. It’s feeling something there but not there, something important in the way that your limbs are important. It’s having access to something greater than yourself—human connection in a more basic, more intrinsic way than any other. When Monty is in pain, when he’s hurting, I feel like I’m being called upon by a higher power to go to him, to comfort him. When Monty is cold I can warm him, when he’s hurt I can numb him.

And when Monty is drunk, at the point just before nausea… I feel like I’m in a warm embrace, like I’m sharing something intimate with someone I love. I feel loved in turn. 

Which just goes to show how perilous a Soulbond can be.

The next day dawns frigid and bleak, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been more hungover, Bond-high or not, than I am right now. I stumble past Monty, who seems to be camping out on the livingroom couch, a mixing bowl clutched in his arms, and for not the first time in my life I wish my Pain Bond was with just about anyone else. I love Monty, I do, but that only seems to make the situation that much worse.

“Good morning, Percy, Henry,” Lockwood says, walking in behind me. He’s looking more awake than he has all week—he must be getting over his illness. Either that or he’s just that thrilled at the idea of having some time off from us after finals are done. 

I want to roll my eyes at that, at least until he pauses in the middle of pulling down a box of cereal and says, “Mr. Montague has confirmed that someone will be arriving in the next few days to take you home, Henry. I’m sure that he’ll wait until the end of finals, so you have that long to get yourself together.”

Oh, dear. That I highly doubt. The most likely scenario is that Sinclair is already on his way, due to arrive any second. Mr. Montague doesn’t care for things like ‘finals’—if one of his children (usually Monty) decides to screw up just before final exams, then that’s on them.

On the couch, Monty gags. I groan, feeling his nausea deep in my chest. Lockwood sighs. 

Then he takes a deep breath and says, “I’m sure your father will lecture you plenty, but—”

And there he goes. I take a deep breath and make sure to discreetly swallow my pill with some apple juice. Monty gags again as if in response, and Lockwood is still going strong, and I just… why can’t I have one good day? “Would you quit that?” I snap, and I’m not sure who it is I’m talking to anymore. I shuffle away from them both, the corners of my mouth turned down. 

“Would if I could,” Monty mutters, before gagging a third time. Lockwood crosses his arms and shakes his head. I drag my hands down my face and prepare to haul myself to my first final, nursing the headache and the nausea the entire time.

I think about Pain Pals and Bond-highs as I trudge through the slush to the bus. It’s one thing to wax poetical about feeling intimacy and connection, but it’s quite another to live with an ever-present reminder that you’re never alone. That you can’t ever keep something just to yourself. That you’re Bound, for good or bad, for as long as you live.

I guess it’s different with Pleasure Partners, not that I really understand them. The Pleasure Bond doesn’t form until you share intimacy with your partner, and it’s been said that pleasure Bonds can fade away with time. A Pain Bond, on the other hand, exists from the moment both parties develop the necessary nerve endings and connected brain tissues to feel pain. 

I come to a halt at the bus stop, shielding my eyes against the sun. Pain Pals… ugh. Why did Monty have to be my Pain Pal? My life would be so much better, so much easier, if we weren’t Bound like this. Why did Fate decide to Bind us together, nervous system to nervous system, forever? I just… I don’t know. I feel lost, and sick, and like I’ll never have my feet back under me, and it’s only partly because Monty’s hangover is wreaking havoc in my body. I just wish… well, I’m not sure. That we weren’t Bound? That’s not right. I’d rather have this than nothing at all. No matter how bad Monty makes me feel I can never quite reach a place where I _hate_ our Bond.

So, what? What do I want? I don’t know, just like I don’t know how long it will take for Sinclair to come for Monty, or how long after that Mr. Montague will arrive back home to ‘punish’ his son. I’m afloat, adrift, and as I sit down for my exam I can’t help the fact that I feel like shit. I’m trying my damnedest to focus but despite the music theory questions in front of me all I have on my mind is Shakespearian Lit, Montagues and Capulets, the Montagues in particular. I think about Romeo and Juliet… a story about pain and pleasure, of the tragedy of Fate… and as I scribble a half-assed set of notes on a staff I wonder if Juliet had half as hard a time dealing with her Montague as I do. 

I’m not sure how well I do on the exam in the end. I doubt I flunked it completely just because I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to hold a violin, but the chance is still there. I sigh and make my way back to the bus. Monty is supposed to have two exams this afternoon but it’s just after noon when I get back to the apartment, and as expected, the Montague family car is there. I walk in to give a dreary hello to Sinclair…

…Only to pause in the doorway, suddenly viscerally afraid.

Because that’s not Sinclair. 

That’s _not the butler_.

That is the governor, _himself_, standing in our livingroom, his blue eyes cold as he surveys the place. Lockwood stands in front of him, attempting to ply him with tea and cookies.

“No. I’m just here for _Henry_,” Mr. Montague says, and I try not to wince as his gaze sweeps over to assess me head to toe. He’s not an incredibly large man, but neither is he as small as Monty, and his mere presence seems to fill the room from floor to ceiling. There’s the lilt of a French accent in his words, which means one thing and one thing only—he’s_ pissed_. 

I give him a greeting and a polite smile, then excuse myself down the hallway before I start freaking out right in front of him.

This is bad. This is _very bad_. This is Monty overdrafting our debit account to buy casino chips bad. Monty’s coming out bad. Broken arms and bruised ribs bad.

God. _Monty_.

I round the corner, turning immediately toward the door to Monty’s room. Monty is inside, staring unseeing at an open suitcase. I lean down in front of him and snap my fingers until he looks up at me. 

“Ah. Percy,” he says, and his voice is as fake happy as I’ve ever heard it. “Father is here. I’ll text you when he… when… you know.”

God. _God_. Lockwood doesn’t yet understand the hell he’s unleashed, but _I_ do. I know what Monty is trying to say. He’s trying to say that he’ll warn me before the beating. Before we’re both hit hard by the punishment that’s coming for us.

And come it will. Mr. Montague made sure of that the moment he decided to come collect Monty himself. There’s no putting it off while he’s away in DC on politician business. No trying to accrue good behavior in the meantime so he’ll take it easy. No reprieve, no softening the blow. 

“Henry!” Mr. Montague calls down the hallway. “Stop dawdling. I have business to attend to.”

And, most of all… no escape.

Monty flinches involuntarily at the sound of his father’s voice. I wince in sympathy. We look at each other. 

There’s nothing left to say. I nod, and Monty nods back, and I leave him to pack his bag. I spend long enough in my own room to snatch up my violin with the intention of whittling away the next few hours in a practice room—just until the text comes—and smile my way around Mr. Montague. Henri the Senior gives me a hard smile as I back out the door, and the shudder that courses through me has nothing to do with the cold.

For the second time today I find myself on the bus on the way to campus. Unlike this morning, however, I find myself pulling the cord a little early, stepping out into the elements and walking a different direction. It takes me a while on foot, but soon enough I can see the slanted roof of the _Eleftheria_ off in the distance.

“Here to play for us again?” calls a voice from the porch as I approach. A few of the men are out front smoking cheap cigars.

I shrug in response. My hands are twitchy and my thoughts are scrambled—I’d more likely mix up the notes than play them straight in the state I’m in.

They seem to understand. It’s as if they see it on me, the nerves and fear that have everything inside me coiled up tight. One of them gets up and the next thing I know Scipio is coming out of the house, a small frown on his face.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” he asks in his heavy accent.

I don’t know what to say. “Nothing, really—” I start, but he’s already shaking his head. I try again. “Um—I just—I’m waiting for something to happen.”

“Something not so great,” Scipio says, filling in the blanks and staring me down all the while. I swallow and nod. 

“And you can’t do anything to stop it,” he guesses next.

“No,” I say miserably, my shoulders slumping. That’s the worst part—I can do _absolutely nothing_ to help Monty. 

I’m not expecting the look of sorrow that crosses Scipio’s face, nor for him to pull me into a hug, but he does just that, a gesture so sincere that I nearly burst into tears right there. It feels like it’s been forever since someone touched me with tenderness, fondness, empathy. Not since the Kiss, at the very least, and maybe not for some time before that. Touch with Monty has always been fond, empathetic, borderline tender, but you don’t treasure the things you should when you don’t know they’re coming to an end. I’ve made a mistake, not committing every kind touch from Monty to memory. I’ve been careless. And now… now I’ve lost something precious.

“Come inside,” Scipio says then, guiding me up the steps. “I’ll make you tea.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. I’m still on the very edge of tears, like one good breeze will push me over the edge and I’ll start bawling. 

Scipio shakes his head. “We had a garden through summer,” he says, now walking me into the kitchen. “Mostly vegetables and such. But the men convinced me to plant a few herbs and tea plants, as well, and now…”

He leads me to a cupboard and throws it open, and I hiccup a laugh at the absolutely ludicrous amount of looseleaf tea-tins crammed inside. He pulls three out and hands them to me, and just like that I find myself in possession of more tea than I can consume in the next year.

We fall into conversation after Scipio has fixed us both some fresh tea in chipped mugs. We talk about simple things, small things, like the mens’ plans to plant even more tea plants and sell their next harvest. They want to build a greenhouse, too, though they need the funds. 

Ours was their first robbery, Scipio tells me, and they aren’t planning another one. They’re picking up odd jobs, getting paid under the table, but Scipio is sure that they can make an honest living. 

“I never liked the idea of robbery,” he tells me, smiling and shaking his head. We’re out on the porch with the others now, our tea keeping us warm. “Too often things go wrong and people get hurt. It’s a better life than slave wages for picking fruit, but not by much.”

I nod along, content to just soak in his stories. I’ve almost forgotten why I came when it happens. Three hours after Monty and his father left the apartment, just after Scipio has convinced me to sit down for a lively dinner with the men, I get the text. _Brace yourself_, it says. 

I take a deep breath.

It doesn’t come immediately. In fact, it takes just long enough that I start hoping that he’s managed to talk his way out of it.

It’s then, of course, that it comes, rolling in like a tsunami, and I’m caught unprepared with my pants down. The first hit arrives and I nearly choke on a bite of tofu.

For a wild second I think Monty has gotten into a car wreck on his way home, the impact is so sudden—as if one second he’s fine and the next an airbag has exploded in his face, knocking him backwards. But it’s not that, I know it deep down, and I shake myself because _I should have been ready_, should have been _waiting_, but I caved when Scipio asked me so gently to sit down and eat. 

I swallow heavily, forcing the food in my mouth down even though it feels like cardboard on my tongue. The sting of the strike crawls across my face. Some of the men are giving me funny looks—I thank them for dinner and take my food to one of the empty front rooms. Scipio watches me the whole way, halfway to a stand, but I shake my head and he sits back down. 

Once I’m alone, I set my plate down on the floor, sliding down next to it with my back to the door, and fumble for my phone. 

_Are you_—I begin to type, meaning to ask him if he’s okay, if it’s over, but then the second blow comes.

It’s just as sudden and just as painful as the first. The first struck the left cheekbone, and this one strikes the left jaw. I rock with the force of it, even though there’s nothing physically happening to me, because it’s a blow made from pure power, pure rage, and I was not made to withstand such a thing. I was made to be quick, nimble, to have my fingers dance across the neck of a violin—I’m soft.

Monty… I whimper, low in my throat. Monty, for all his faults, is stronger than I am. He’s made of metal, of steel—but even steel melts under the massive pressure of gravity under the mantle of the earth. There is no way that he’s going to be okay after this. This is only just beginning, and I’m too far away to help. The most I can do is cower and cry through the pain and hope that Monty will run, run, run away, knowing already that he won’t.

As the third hit comes.

And the fourth.

And the fifth…

And on…

And on…

And _on_…


	10. The Beating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty's... _altercation_... with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist of songs that remind me of Percy or that I think Percy would like. [Take this and go forth knowing that this chapter is pretty heavy but that things WILL get better.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3NHUI24F8eA2qDmUZdrMVc)

Ten minutes. Ten minutes of eternity, and the final blow lands. 

It takes me a moment to realize that no more are coming. That the torture is over and I can regain my bearings. It's the noise in the other room that does it—I realize, slow and sluggish, that I can focus again on the voices in the next room over. 

From there I slowly come back to myself.

It takes a few minutes. I’ve given up on sitting the right way up—instead I’m curled up on my side on the floor, both hands pressed over my face as tears stream from my eyes. I’ve given up on counting, as well—there came a point where the pain of one strike started to blend into the pain of another and I couldn’t separate them anymore. 

That last blow, though… it’s a doozy. If Monty’s nose isn’t broken it’ll be a miracle. 

For not the first time I wish Monty would do something other than take the beating—it’s an ache inside of me, that wish. Because Monty never fights back. He never raises his hands to protect himself, never returns a blow, never runs away. And I… I don’t know why? It’s baffled me ever since I first figured it out—why would Monty _not fight back_? 

With a sigh, I loosen my legs, sniffling to myself. My fingers are shaking as I slowly uncurl, pressing my left cheek, the one that hurts less, to the floor. In all honesty, I’ve never had the heart to ask. What could I possibly do, what could I possibly say, if the answer came back that he thought he deserved it? I’m weak—I’d probably break down myself if he ever uttered those words. Weak… and selfish. Because I don’t _want_ to hear them. I don’t want to hear that Monty, my dearest Monty, thinks so little of himself. I don’t want to hear that the strongest, most spirited person in my life could be broken by this and that I’ve just sat by and allowed it to happen all these years.

Ignoring the sharp pain in my chest, both from the thoughts and from the beating, I reach for my phone to finish my text. I have to wipe my eyes several times before I’m able to see properly. _Are you okay?_ I send, then lower the phone to the floorboards in front of me. I stare and stare, waiting for it to buzz, but nothing comes. 

At least I know he’s not dead, I reassure myself as there’s a knock on the door behind me. I know this because I, myself, am still alive. I likely wouldn’t survive the pain of feeling Monty breathe his last breath. Pain Pals tend to die together, passing within hours or minutes of each other—and it’s clear why. Feeling another’s death just isn’t something we were meant to survive.

So I let Scipio in and set in to wait. And wait. And wait…

…until _finally_ my text gets a response. 

It’s late. I’ve hardly moved from my spot on the floor—the pain is enough to make me feel unsteady, like I’ll tip over if I attempt it. Monty is feeling worse. A lot worse, actually. It crawls across the taut bowstring of our Bond—dizziness and nausea and an odd sensation in the right ear, like there’s a pillow pressing over it, obscuring everything on that side.

“Your phone,” Scipio says quietly, and I jump.

Right. My phone. _Focus_, I tell myself. The text. It came through just before midnight, rattling my phone on the floor. I can barely get my shaking fingers around the device. 

I’m expecting him to play it down. He’ll pretend it’s not so bad, that the pain is just a buzzing fly he can brush away. When I push, he’ll pretend he has no idea what I’m talking about—but when he starts to ask me to drink for him I’ll know it’s to help numb the pain. 

And I’m expecting me to do it, if he asks—because I always do it when he asks, even though I hate it with all my being. 

Only he doesn’t ask that. Instead he tells me that he’s so, so sorry. Just that, nothing more and nothing less. Deep inside me I feel a chill at those words.

He needs me. He needs me _right now_.

I let my phone rest against my chest, willing myself to stand up. The mind is willing but the flesh is weak—it takes four or five tries to get my knees under me, and another two to stagger to my feet. Scipio helps—he gets an arm under mine, taking some of my weight until I find my sea-legs.

He then starts gathering up his shoes and mine, helping me with the laces when my vision doubles. 

"Alright," Scipio says once we've got that sorted out. "Where to now?"

I don't know. The most cohesive thought I can scramble together is that Monty's car is still at the apartment. If we make it back there I can find his keys and drive it back home. 

It's not a perfect solution. I learned to drive at fifteen, but I was banned from getting my license because of the epilepsy. "You're a liability behind the wheel unless your seizures are well-controlled by medication," they said, when they denied me. Still, I know how, and I'll do just about anything to get to Monty right now.

Lockwood does a double take when he answers the door, going, “Percy, your _face_—” but I have no patience for him. I walk right on by, trying to breathe through the pain, trying to think of where Monty's spare key might be stashed, knowing it's a bad idea but knowing that I _need to do this_.

Until, that is, a hand falls on my shoulder. “Percy. _Percy_,” Lockwood says. His eyes are beseeching. I’m not sure what’s on my face aside from Monty’s Color, but he must see that I need to go because he snatches up his own keys. “Get in my car, I’ll drive you,” he says, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter that it’s a three-hour drive back home and I’ve technically got finals tomorrow and it’s late already. Me and Scipio get into Lockwood’s car and I punch in the address for his GPS and then we’re off.

It’s a quiet drive. I try calling Monty a few times but he never answers—I leave a message telling him that _I__’m on my way, please take care of yourself. For me, darling_. Then I give up, staring at that text. The last thing Monty said to me.

_He__’s okay. He has to be okay_, I think. 

The ride feels like an eternity. At one point, the nausea, previously just an unpleasant fog in the back of my mind, grows so sharp and pointed that I think I’m going to throw up. I barely manage to tell Lockwood to pull over before I’m tumbling from the car, bracing my hands on my knees. There’s the sound of a car door, and then Scipio is at my side, pressing one warm palm to the back of my neck.

It helps, but it also doesn’t help. A few unproductive retches pass my lips, the nausea peaking just short of relief. It reminds me of once when we were little, when Monty had the flu. He was so sick, throwing up nearly nonstop at points, but the nausea on my side of the Bond never quite hit strong enough for me to join him.

He’s throwing up now. My worry ramps up just that much higher, trying to choke me, but I manage to swallow it back down. Then I stand back up, nod my head at Scipio, get back in the car, and keep going.

We get to the house soon after that. It’s not soon enough. It’s nearly three in the morning and I’m close to frantic as I dig through the front garden for the key hidden there, only stopping when the front light comes on. I freeze, contemplating making a run for it—if it’s his father, if he’s _waiting for me_—but when the door opens it’s just Sinclair. 

He’s still wearing his day clothes, the crisp uniform wrinkled. He’s up well past his bedtime, but there’s worry on his face as he ushers me inside, going, “Thank goodness you’re here. Mr. Montague won’t let me fetch the doctor and I don’t know what to do.”

“Where is he?” I ask, not sure if I mean Henri the Senior or Monty, but Sinclair answers both questions as he casts a glance to the floor above, leading me to the lower level bathroom.

The door is closed but not locked. I knock lightly. No response. Exchanging a look with Sinclair, I ease the door open, and…

My shoulders fall, taking in the sight of Monty huddled up in front of the toilet. He looks so small, one arm on the rim and the left side of his face resting on it. His hair obscures the worst of the swelling but I don’t have to look closely to tell that it’s severe. It’s obvious in the blood drying in his right ear, the lurid color that the shadows can’t account for. 

I take the rest of him in in one quick sweep—he’s in only a binder and pants, more swelling and blooming bruises on his shoulders and chest, shirt abandoned beside him. His eyes are closed but I can tell he’s awake, for some value of wakefulness. His other arm is pressed tight against his ribs.

“Monty,” I say, keeping my voice low. I hear Sinclair shut the door behind me and I glance upward, almost expecting to hear Monty’s father coming down, but the house is perfectly silent aside from me. It’s eerie, the silence—a house with three people, a handful of servants, and a baby should never be this quiet. I swallow and step forward, calling out again.

Still, Monty doesn’t move. Thinking about that odd blankness in his right ear, I kneel down beside him and rest a hand on his shoulder, shaking him just slightly.

The effect is instantaneous. He comes fully awake all at once, his good eye flying open and his entire body going rigid under my palm. I hiss as pain sings up my chest and into my head, yanking my hand back, but he’s already relaxing again, thank god. He must have realized that I’m not his father.

I take some slow breaths, listening to Monty do the same. His eye slides closed and he lifts his head off his arm, causing another note in a melody of pain. I wince, going to tell him to just relax, _please_, but then it hits me—the _nausea_. His breathing is too shallow, the dizziness isn’t letting up, and I can tell he’s going to throw up just before he does.

Thank god he was so close to the toilet, or else he wouldn’t have made it. I swallow down heaves and focus on holding his hair back with shaking hands, trying to steer clear of the mess that is the right side of his face.

“You came,” Monty says with a croak when he’s finally done.

“Of course I came,” I respond. 

“I thought… thought that you’d…”

He doesn’t finish the thought, whatever it is. He’s still breathing so shallowly, like he can only get small sips of air at a time. I rest my hand on his back, rubbing up and down, lowering my voice. “Hey, hey… tell me how to help, what can I do?”

He shakes his head, making the world swim around me. “I can’t get… my binder off. It hurts so bad, Perce, I… think my ribs are broken.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” I say, but it’s rote. I have no doubt at this point that at least one of his ribs is broken. The nausea and dizziness swirling around his head makes me very worried that he’s concussed, as well, and the strange blankness in his right ear… all in all, he’s not doing so hot. At least he’s still got hearing in his left ear, I reason, as I reach carefully for the hem of his binder. At least there’s that.

He doesn’t put up a fight as I slide my fingers under the tight fabric. I’m trying to be careful, but there isn’t much I can do about the fact that it’s literally compression gear. I fold it up to start dragging it off of him and can only get so far before I pinch something inside of him that feels like glass in my side.

I gasp, backing off. He’s breathing faster now, shallower, trembling under the pressure of the binder. I reach forward again, hands shaky, and he flinches, but it’s only to unfold the hem and smooth it down again. I’m not trying that a second time.

“Monty… I think we need to cut it off.”

For a moment there’s nothing as Monty processes what I’ve said. Then his eye, the one that isn’t swelling closed, gets very wide and a whimper crawls from his throat before he can stop it.

I’m already on my hands and knees, crawling toward the bathroom drawers. The first one I get my hands on is full of curling irons and straighteners and god knows what else—must be the drawer of things his mother uses to try and tame Felicity’s hair. I move on.

“Please don’t, _please_,” Monty’s shaking voice comes from the other side of the bathroom. It’s so small, I can hardly believe it’s the voice of the man I love.

“You can’t breathe, love,” I say, hoping to strike the right chord between calming and authoritative. What I manage instead is something equally small, equally shaky. I swallow hard, searching more drawers. Hair clippers, bath bombs, pomade… nothing useful. Not until I find the haircutting kit, anyway. Inside that is a pair of haircutting scissors, small and wicked sharp.

Monty whimpers under his breath as I go back to him. “Just hold still, love, yeah?” I say.

He’s shaking. Trembling. But he does his best, leaning forward with his hands braced against the floor. I stroke his hair for a moment, press a kiss to the sweat at the crown of his head, and then, with all the care that I can muster, I begin to wriggle the sharp, needle-fine end of one of the open blades under the hem of his binder.

It’s slow work, cutting it free. The fabric stretches but only so far, the edges shrinking away from each other as I go. The good news is that the dizziness begins to let up a little as he starts to get deeper breaths. The bad news is… well, everything else.

I finish off with a final decisive cut. The binder falls away, Monty clutching the loose fabric to his chest to cover himself, and I’m suddenly more angry than I’ve ever been in my _life_ because I can see bruises rising all along his sides, his shoulders, his _back_ and I think of the monster that did this and I want to _lose it_.

“You need to go to the hospital,” I say instead, my voice low. It’s shaking.

“I’m alright now, it’s not that bad,” he says.

His voice is light but it’s not fooling me. I can literally feel his pain—he’s not okay, binder or no. “Broken ribs,” I remind him, as gently as I can. His shoulders fall, his face twisting. He can’t argue with me, not tonight. I press another desperate kiss to his head before standing up. “I’ll give you a minute,” I say quietly, "And then we're getting you out of this house."

He glances upward, and I'm afraid he'll resist… but then he nods, fumbling for his shirt. 

It’s been a long night, and it’s only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that we've hit 25k words! Also you'll notice that I updated the chapter count--I was having some trouble with a few parts of the story that wanted to be split into multiple chapters, but it's all figured out now!
> 
> Shoutout to everyone who's left a comment, they've been the highlight of my days this week!


	11. The Offer

Me and Sinclair manage to get Monty out of the house with no problems, and the two of us meet Lockwood and Scipio at the car. Lockwood gasps when he sees Monty’s face, but Scipio just takes it in stride, his face hard and his teeth gritted. He helps Monty in and buckles the seatbelt around him.

I try not to think about Sinclair’s solemn form, watching us head off down the street from the top of the drive. Something that normal people don’t always understand about the upper class is that when it comes to people like Mr. Montague, money literally becomes power. Henri the Senior has more power than any of us—it’s in the estate, the family name, the fortune that came from his own father, the politician’s income. He can buy his way out of anything, and god forbid someone get in his way, intentionally or not. Sinclair has put himself in the line of fire, going against the direct instructions of the master of the house. He could very well be fired and blacklisted for helping us, even to help get Monty the medical attention he needs, and there’s nothing that any of us can do about it. 

I hope, for Sinclair’s sake, that he can pretend that he was asleep when Monty snuck out of the house. I hope that he can claim the benefit of the doubt. I hope that it won’t come to his livelihood versus Henri the Senior’s will.

I’m forced to put Sinclair out of my mind as the hospital appears in Lockwood’s headlights. The four of us pull around to the entrance of the emergency room in the space of time just before dawn, and it is absolutely deserted. It’s like entering a backstage area full of unused stage props, some liminal space that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. It’s unnerving, though not as unnerving as Monty’s uneasy breathing at my side. As Lockwood parks the car in the near-empty lot, Scipio and I lead Monty to the front desk to sign him in. 

He’s walking under his own power, at least for now. White-knuckling it the entire way, biting the inside of his cheek to counteract the pain in his chest, but still, he’s moving. I’m not sure exactly how far his pride will take him, though, so I stay close, an arm around his waist just in case. He’s dizzy enough that he doesn’t pull away.

They call him in almost as soon as we’ve sat down with the insurance paperwork. We leave Scipio in the waiting room and settle down in one of the patient rooms. 

The questions start immediately after that. _What happened_ and _can you start from the beginning_ and _who did this, Henry_?

“I don’t know,” he says, over and over, his voice growing dull and strained with every iteration. “It was dark. I never saw their face. I don’t know. I don’t _know_.”

They turn to me and I shake my head. “I wasn’t there,” I say, which is true, and “I don’t know, either,” which is not. I keep shooting Monty looks but he’s avoiding my gaze, his good eye fixed on the nurse as she takes his vitals. I’m not sure exactly who he’s protecting—his father from him, or himself from his father. Either way, it’s not my place to speak for him. One day, someday, he’ll have to be honest about this. Today is not that day. In the meantime… there’s nothing I can do.

After a while the doctor arrives, interrupting the endless cycle of question and non-answer. She’s short and stout and very peppy for four-thirty AM. “We’re going to do some x-rays here for your ribs, and then I’m going to send you to the CT to scan that head. Sound all right?” she asks as she shines a light in Monty’s eyes. He tries to shrug and makes both of us wince with the twinge of pain.

The process for the x-rays is swift and simple. They bring in a portable x-ray machine, set up some equipment that Felicity would understand, and snap some pics. I’m made to stand outside while they do the actual deed, but it takes just a few seconds and then I’m slipping back through the door and taking his hand in mine. The CT scan, on the other hand…

“It’ll take fifteen minutes or so. You’re welcome to wait here,” the doctor says, and then they’re wheeling him from the room.

I intend to do just that. Keyword: _intend_. By the time two minutes have passed I’m pacing the room, feeling like the walls are closing in on me. I can’t stay here, I can’t—not with Monty out there, alone. He’s got two cracked ribs, he’s—I _can__’t_. It makes me feel trapped. I’ll know if they hurt him, but it does me no good to feel his pain if I’m not there to help. I feel like an animal in a snare, chewing away at the wire wrapped around my limbs. I need to get out of here.

I find myself in the bathroom just down the hall, splashing water on my face. When I finally get up the courage to look in the mirror, I wince. I’m a mosaic of Monty’s Blue, the most vibrant color the scratches where Henri the Senior’s rings drew blood. It makes my stomach roll, looking at it, searching for unmarked skin, because it seems as if there is none.

I’ve got to get a hold of myself.

And Felicity. I need to get hold of Felicity. I pull out my phone to text her but before I can I see the text from Monty, still open, and the seriousness of the night hits me all over again. His father… his father usually stops before he’s done any permanent damage. He’ll even do his best to hide the evidence, more often than not—he hasn’t aimed for Monty’s face in several years. What he’s done tonight…

I close my eyes, blue dancing behind my eyelids. My chest hurts so bad it feels like my ribs have burst open from the intensity of my anguish. The last time the hits came this hard was when Monty came out, and even then the brunt of the damage was Monty’s broken arm, not his face. 

I don’t know what made this one different. I don’t know what words Mr. Montague says to his son while he’s beating him into the floor. All I know is that I need to be there when Monty comes back from the CT, so I take a moment to breathe, to swallow my anger, before I sew my chest back together and go to wait in the hallway.

He comes back with the news that he’s concussed. From there it’s hearing tests and painkillers and letting us know that despite the concussion being mild they want to keep him a day for observation just in case. They coach him through breathing deeply, tell him to get as many deep breaths as he can even though it hurts, and he does as asked.

“How are you doing?” I ask, in a lull between doctors and nurses. I’m sitting in the bed on his left side, holding his hand. Monty is flagging, his chin resting on my shoulder as he blinks at the people who keep coming in and out of the room for this and that. 

It takes him a moment to process the question, and then he’s flashing me a smile that looks jarring against the swelling. “I’m doing fine, darling,” he says. Then he yawns, blinking yet again.

“You can rest a bit, you know,” I say, nudging him toward his pillow, but he shakes his head. He wants to wait for the results of the hearing test. 

They come at seven AM, two and a half hours after Monty’s admittance. The peppy doctor is less peppy now, and I can tell already that the news isn’t good. She asks if Monty wants me to stay in the room with him for this or if he perhaps wants to wait for his family to arrive.

“Of course I want Percy here!” Monty says, before I even turn to him with the question in my eyes, as if it never occurred to him that I would leave for any reason. His hand is tight on mine, and I shift to thread my fingers through his. He clutches tighter, swallowing in anticipation of the news.

The doctor looks down at us with a pitying expression. “We can still wait for your family to—”

“No, lets—just rip the band-aid off. Please,” Monty says, and I’m nodding along. The sooner we get through this the sooner Monty can sleep, and that’s the only thought I’ll entertain.

Then she says it, and I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. “You’re deaf in your right ear,” she says. “We’ll retest in a few weeks when the swelling goes down, but this is likely permanent. The recipient of your Pain Bond,” and here she inclines her head to me, “will likely be hard of hearing in that ear as well, depending on how strong your Bond is. I know this is hard news to digest, so when you’re ready we can—”

I see the moment that this gets through Monty’s forced cheer because his smile falters for the first time all morning. “Wait,” he says. He’s leaning away from me, turning his entire body in the bed so he can face me. I feel a twinge in his ribs but it’s barely there now that the painkillers are circulating in his blood. “Wait, you… you can’t hear, either?”

I blow out a breath. “I… It’s, it’s not bad, it’s—”

“Percy, you—oh, god, I’ve taken away your _hearing_?”

“Just a little!” I reassure him. I pull our intertwined hands into my lap, intending to calm him down, but he jerks and pulls away, planting both hands on his face with a look of dawning horror.

“You’re a musician,” he whispers. “You—you need to be able to _hear_!”

“And I _can_—” I start. The doctor also starts to speak, something about the highest Bond-related hearing loss ever recorded being 70% and we’re likely well below that threshold, but Monty isn’t hearing it, and it’s only partly because he’s deaf in one ear. He won’t stop saying that he’s taken my hearing from me. He’s distraught. He’s _panicking_.

“Can you give us a minute?” I ask the doctor, who nods. I wait until she’s out of the room before I reach over to grasp Monty’s wrists, dragging his hands down from his face. “Monty. _ Look at me_,” I say. 

His eyes focus on me and his face twists. He doesn’t cry but I can see the anguish clear as day. I plow onward. 

“When I say it’s okay, I mean that _it__’s okay_, all right? I can hear as well as I need to.”

He moans, clutching at my shirt. I lean down until my forehead is pressed to his, careful of his bruises. 

“This isn’t your fault,” I whisper. When he shakes his head, I cup his jaw with both hands and lean in toward his good ear, saying it again. And again. And again. I’ll say it a hundred times if I have to. I’ll say it until he believes it.

“I’ve hurt you,” he says. 

“It wasn’t you,” I say back.

“I let it happen.”

“You didn’t. You didn’t ask for this.”

“It would be better if I were dead.”

“It would not.”

“You wouldn’t have to live through this if I were. I _wish_ I were dead.”

“Do you… you don’t mean that, do you?”

He’s avoiding my gaze. “No. Yes? Look, Perce… without me your life would be so much better. Even you have to admit that.”

I’m knocked sideways by the certainty with which he says those words. He holds so much anguish for me and my lost hearing but he holds nothing, not even pity, for the thought of himself, dead and gone.

My heart has started to pound, my breath shortening as I come to terms with the thought that he’s been harboring this… this _idea_ for a while now and I didn’t even know. He’s not looking at me, his face far too pale under the color of the beating on his skin, and I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, which is, “don’t. Just—don’t want to be dead. I’ll give you five reasons to live, right here and right now, so just… just listen. Okay?”

“Percy—”

“Five reasons. One: I’ve already got your Christmas present picked out and if you die you’ll never get to open it. What a disappointment that would be.”

He’s still not looking at me, but he’s silent now, listening. I keep going, my confidence growing.

“Two: without you and your abysmal pool skills, I’d have to actually get good at the game instead of using you as a comparison, which would put a real kink in my free time.”

He smacks at me with one hand. “I thought this was about me and my will to live?” he asks.

“Oh, it is. It’s just that I’m a selfish bastard. So three: if you were to die, there would be no one to hate Richard Peele with me.”

“I do hate Richard Peele.”

“WE HATE RICHARD PEELE!” I yell, forgetting that we’re in a hospital. I then slap both hands over my mouth, chagrined.

Monty is giggling, though, and when he nudges my shoulder and goes, “well, go on, what’s number four?” I can only grin.

“Four: there would be no one to love Felicity.”

“I don’t love Felicity.”

“You do. And five… you can’t possibly know how boring my life would be without you. You can’t die because it just wouldn’t be fair to deprive me of you.”

The honesty of saying so out loud is a lot. I bite my lip, looking down for a long moment. When I look up again, Monty is staring at me. Really and truly staring at me, as if he’s never seen me before in his life. As if he’s just now understanding something crucial about me. And as I look at him, I understand something in turn: when he’s with me, he never shows how much pain he’s really in. 

It’s like seeing clearly for the first time in my life. He’s never begged, not once in his life, but I can see it in his eyes right now—a desperate desire for us to be somewhere, _anywhere_ else. I can’t help it—seeing that breaks down every barrier inside of me that’s always cautioned me not to do it, not to lay my heart bare on the table. Taking his hand in mine I take a deep breath and begin, “what if… what if we could do something else?”

“Something else?” he asks. “What do you…?”

“I mean,” I say, suddenly breathless, “what if instead of resigning ourselves to death we could—could go away somewhere?” As I utter the words I see the resignation rising in the way he breaks eye contact, but still I forge onward, heedless. “Somewhere far away, where we wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. What if we could run, just run away from here and—”

“I can’t,” Monty says, breaking through my desperate rambling. “I just… I can’t, Perce. I’m stuck.”

“But what if you’re not?” I ask, determined. This is the best idea I’ve ever had, bar none. “You’re old enough to leave. You don’t want to be here anymore. If we could just get away—”

“I _am_ stuck, though,” he says, kindness slicing through me. I twitch backwards, suddenly unsure, as his hand squeezes mine once and then retracts. “What you’re suggesting… we’d have nothing. No money, no support… heck, I don’t even know how to cook an egg on my own without burning the house down. It wouldn’t work.”

I’m not ready to give up, but by the sound of it he is. “Wait, hold up—” I start, knowing already that I’m not going to get very far.

I’m right. He cuts me off, again with that kind, apologetic tone to his voice that I’m starting to absolutely hate. “I’m serious. This is just how it is, okay? We can’t do anything about it.”

We can. We can we can _we can_. Why can’t he see that? Why can’t he see that this is killing us both slowly and we need to get _out_? I stare at him and he doesn’t look up and I can’t _understand_.

“I’m sorry, Percy,” he whispers, and it’s the sound of our fate being sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘there would be no one to love Felicity’ thing comes from another fanfic. Homage, bitch. I'll link it if I find it again.
> 
> EDIT: [FOUND IT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714657)


	12. The Hospital

I wait until Monty is asleep, curled up and small on his left side, before I sneak out of his room and find my way to the stairs to sit alone for a while, making sure to take my pill before I forget. I’m not sure what I want to do, at first—just sit and think? Call my aunt, maybe? Hospitals really aren't the best place for my sanity—but then I’m down and my head feels heavy and I realize I just really need to cry for a bit.

It happens, sometimes. Unlike Monty, whose tear ducts may as well be fused shut for all the crying he does, I tend to shed tears aplenty for the pain he endures. It was embarrassing, when we were little and I’d be bawling about his scraped knee, but I’ve come to understand that it’s just something that needs to happen. Catharsis or whatever. While Monty flushes out his emotions using alcohol, I do it with a good cry. And boy, do I need one after everything that’s happened.

And maybe… if I’m also crying for myself as well as Monty… for the chance of getting away from this life, now lost… well, no one will know, will they. 

This is where Felicity finds me some time later. I’m pushed up against the railing with my hand over my eyes, tears seeping past my fingers, when I sense someone stop in front of me. I’m about to apologize and get out of their way when I realize who it is. 

Her face is pinched, unhappy. My shoulders slump. She clears her throat, and…

“Father did this. Didn’t he.”

It’s not a question. She already knows the answer. How long she’s suspected I haven’t a clue. I’ve wanted to tell her for so long… to let her know that things in that house aren’t as they seem, that Monty isn’t the way he is by chance… but for some godforsaken reason now that it’s out in the open I can hardly nod my head yes. I feel like I’m failing Monty even doing that much.

Felicity blows out a breath and folds herself down on the step next to me. “Father said he got into a fight at school,” she says. “…But his knuckles were bandaged. When I asked mom what happened, she said it was an accident.”

Of course they did. They always have an excuse, a way to wriggle their way free from the repercussions.

Felicity sits still for a few minutes, lost in that thought, before she barks an unfamiliar, un-lady-like laugh and says, “God, I can’t believe I used to think Monty actually got into fights. Looking back, I… it was so obvious? Why the hell did I never put the pieces together?”

I shake my head, staring unseeing at the wall ahead of us. A dozen grainy film clips of Monty leaning close to a mirror and oh-so-carefully covering bruises with make-up flash across my mind’s eye. He’d always do his own first, and then he’d reach for me, smiling that smile that said that everything was okay. I’d sit down and let him brush cover-up so gently across the Color staining my face, covering the sins of his father, hiding our pain away.

I sniff and wipe at my eyes, my face twisting. It’s just… unfair. So incredibly unfair. I want to _scream_ at the unfairness of it. At knowing that Mrs. Montague isn’t going to visit her son in the hospital, at the fact that Monty will likely never regain the hearing in his right ear, at the slow-creeping realization that Henri the Senior actually, genuinely, doesn’t have a care in this world to spare for his eldest child.

And then there’s me, lost for Monty, in too deep but still not deep enough. I can’t stand watching this go down again and again and again, but I can’t leave him, either—I wouldn’t make it on my own. I don’t even know who I’d be without that mischievous smile lighting my face in the mirror. So where does that leave me? 

Hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t love me back, is the answer to that one. I sniff again.

“He’ll be okay,” Felicity says, after a long, long moment in which we both stare into the distance, lost in our own thoughts. She says it like she’s deciding it, right here and right now. Like if she believes it hard enough she can make it true.

I hope she’s right. God, I hope she’s right.

In the afternoon, after Monty has had a good few hours of sleep and I’ve had a power nap in the lobby, I head back in, Felicity tiptoeing in on my heels. 

He’s doped up on pain meds and still a little out of it due to the sleepless night, but he’s quick to perk up when he sees us. “Ah,” he says. “My favorite person in the whole world. And my sister, I guess.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. In another world, another life, she’d reach out and smack him on the shoulder for his smart mouth, but here within the blank sterile walls of a hospital room she falters and her hand falls to her side. 

It’s awkward. Monty seems to want to go back to their normal planned programming of sibling infighting but it’s like he doesn’t quite know how to do it when Felicity won’t respond in kind. Her answer to the question of ‘how do you act when you’ve just found out your brother is being abused by your father’ is to sit at his bedside with a sad smile on her face, her hand resting on his arm in a gesture that’s clearly supposed to be comforting. He does not look comforted—in fact, he’s clearly unnerved. I watch and try not to laugh.

Somewhere in the middle of this, I get a text from Lockwood that he and Scipio are here to visit us. Monty is surprised when I tell him the news, as if he wasn’t expecting them to come. His smile is blinding when they make their way into the room, coming to stand behind Felicity. The two of them can’t have had much sleep, either, but they don’t seem to be feeling it the way I am as they tell a tale about sleeping in the car and getting a late brunch at a decidedly spooky breakfast joint. 

It’s as they mention the breakfast place and start laughing together (an odd thing, by the way, because as of yesterday these two had no idea who each other were) that I realize that Monty seems to be having a hard time following along. His good eye keeps flitting back and forth to whoever is talking, trying to focus on their faces, his head tilting to the right as if he can compensate for the deafness on that side. I can see the frustration growing, and with a glance at Felicity I realize she can see it, too. 

With probably less tact than I mean I grab hold of Lockwood and walk him into the hall, Felicity following behind. “We’ll be back!” I call to Monty, and then we’re gone, leaving Scipio behind.

“What is it?” Lockwood asks, once we’re out. “Do you perhaps need my statement for the police?”

“The police?” I ask, confused. I just brought us outside so that Monty wouldn’t have to focus on so many people at once.

Lockwood frowns. “Yes. The police,” he says.

I stare.

“…I suspect Henry isn’t thrilled about it, but you are planning to tell the police what happened, yes?” Lockwood says, giving me a look.

I look around, and realize that Felicity’s eyes are on me, as well. I can’t quite decipher the look on her face. It’s grim, I think, and maybe determined, but other than that I can’t really pick out any particular emotions. She doesn’t seem disturbed about the idea of selling out her father. She’s going to make an excellent surgeon one day, I think, not for the first time.

It’s here that I have to shake my head, breaking eye contact and admitting, “I’ve… well, I’ve tried before.”

“You’ve…?”

I force myself to look up at Lockwood, through the sudden surge of guilt that’s eating at my chest. “When we were twelve. I, um… Mr. Montague. He broke Monty’s arm. They had a private doctor come in and fix him up, and because it was over the summer, the school didn’t know. No one knew. Except… except me. And I was scared, so I called 911 and I told them.”

It’s a bitter memory for me, that day. Because Mr. Montague had flown in from his campaign route on a private jet, no one would believe me that he was back in town. Or at least, that was what they said. They accused me of trying to sabotage the then-mayor, of trying to ruin his campaign for governor. They even dragged my family into it—accused my aunt and uncle of trying to start a smear campaign against the man, of feeding me things to say to derail his future career. The cops came and saw me, a little black kid with Monty’s Blue coloring his face and arm, and basically said to my face that I was the problem. That if I kept on like this Monty and his whole family would get in trouble, and then what would I do, hm?

“The police wouldn’t believe me then, and I doubt they’d believe me now,” I finish, my voice low, and I know the bitterness of the memory is coloring my tone but I can’t do anything about it. “They’re in Mr. Montague’s back pocket. They’ll be on his side.”

I’ve never told that story, not even to Monty. No one has cared enough before. No one has even offered to go to the police for us before. Not the servants or the doctors or Mrs. Montague. Just me. And I… I failed.

No one says anything for a good long while. It’s then, in the silence created by my story, that I hear Scipio’s soft, muffled voice in the room next to us, telling Monty to hold himself this way and to stand that way and to raise his fists, Monty, _raise them like you mean it_. 

“I can’t,” Monty says, huffing an odd laugh.

“You can,” Scipio says. “Just go slow. Careful of your ribs. Raise your fist and hit me.”

I imagine Monty, battered and beaten, raising his fists. There’s a barely-there _thwack_ and Monty laughs again, high and odd. “This is—I’m not made for this. I’d break my hand if I ever tried to hit someone like this.”

“With your thumb in your fist like that, maybe. But get your thumb out and you can take down a man.”

“Why am I trying to take down a man?”

“You aren’t trying to. You’re protecting yourself.”

“Ah. Against robbers, I imagine.”

“Very funny. Now try again.”

Another little _thwack_. Monty blows out a slow breath.

“There you go,” Scipio says, and he’s so achingly gentle with Monty. He’s the polar opposite of Mr. Montague, walking Monty through throwing a punch to defend himself, so slow and gentle that he doesn’t hurt his ribs. “You do that, with all your might, the next time someone comes at you. You understand me, Henry?”

I can’t help it—I wince, closing my eyes. Everything is too real right now. It’s too_ much_. Thinking about Monty’s broken arm and the police and this one, _this_ beating— 

I cover my face with my hands, all the emotions hitting me all at once. I’ve already cried today but apparently I wasn’t finished and I’m about to do it again because it hasn’t escaped my attention that the entire chain of events leading up to Monty’s beating and this moment with Scipio began with me, and a club, and a kiss. If it weren’t for that _damn_ kiss, Monty wouldn’t have thought to get in trouble the day of the parade, the reporters wouldn’t have gotten their newsworthy pictures, and Henri the Senior wouldn’t have had cause to bring his fists down on his eldest child.

If it weren’t for me, maybe Monty wouldn’t have _had_ to protect himself.

“This is my fault,” I say aloud, softly. It’s the guilt of the Kiss, multiplied by the fact that maybe someone, anyone, would have believed me all those years ago if I just… fought harder, tried longer, _done more_. Maybe if I hadn’t been scared into shutting my mouth I could have found someone who would have _done something_. 

Felicity puts her hand on my shoulder. “You did everything you could,” she says. 

A fresh tear tracks its way down my cheek and I swipe at it. My voice shakes as I say, “I should have told you what was happening. Fuck, I should have told everyone I met—I should have shouted about it from the rooftops. I shouldn’t have let them silence me.”

And that’s there… that’s the crux of the issue. The number one reason Fate made a mistake Binding us together. A Pain Pal should never cause their Soulmate pain, but here I am, complicit in Monty’s pain, which in turn becomes my own pain, an endless cycle. 

Beside me Felicity’s nose wrinkles, and I think she’s going to agree, until she opens her mouth and says, “Percy, you were _twelve years old_. I hardly think a child is to blame.”

“But—”

Felicity shakes her head. “No buts. You did what you were supposed to—the fact that the police didn’t believe you is a problem with the system that funds them, not with you. You _did your best_, Percy. _Thank you_ for trying to save my brother.”

I’m crying harder now, one arm wrapped around my chest. Monty is due for his next dose of painkillers and the ache in his chest is starting to seep across the bond to me. I feel broken and lost, too many emotions coming to the surface all at once to deal with them all. “What does it matter that I tried?” I ask through the tears. “I didn’t try hard enough, evidently, and it didn’t help in the end.”

“Percy Newton,” Felicity says, so kind that I nearly flinch back. “If you can think for even one second that you haven’t helped my brother, then you are completely delusional. You are his _best friend_. He trusts you more than anyone. You _must_ see that.”

I can only shake my head, both hands planted over my mouth. Felicity frowns, but only for a moment—in the next instant she’s thrown both her arms around my neck, forcing me to bend over as she hugs me like her life depends on it.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that. It’s not comfortable—I have to bend quite a ways, but she plants my forehead on her shoulder and doesn’t let me up so I haven’t much of a choice but to cry into her sweater. She isn’t much for physical contact, which says a lot about the current state of my head, as does the fact that I don’t realize Lockwood has disappeared until he comes back, a cup of shitty hospital tea in hand. 

He passes it to me once I’m done sobbing like a tiny child. I wipe at my face and take it in one shaking hand, hoping that I haven’t triggered a seizure with all this emotional upheaval. That would certainly be the cherry on top of the worst week of my life.

Once I’ve taken a few sips, Felicity nails me with a stare. “I’m serious,” she says then. “You are perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to Monty.”

I huff a wobbly laugh. “You don’t know that.”

“I have eyes, Percy.”

“God, you’re going to make me cry again,” I say. 

“So be it,” she says. “If you ever start spouting off about how any of this is your fault ever again I’m going to hug you until you see stars, and I don’t even _like_ hugs.”

I nod seriously. Threats from a Montague are far from idle. Then I go to splash my face with some water before all of us settle down for dinner with Monty. I look again in the mirror at the blue coloring my face, and…

Things are changing. Monty has grown up. _I__’ve_ grown up. I’m not sure yet if the changes are for the better, but either way, change will eventually get us somewhere. Somewhere, I hope, that is far, far away from here. Away from the sick miasma of the Montague house, and the atrocities that have occurred inside it.

And when, if, that comes to pass… if we do manage to get out someday… I want to be ready. I _will_ be ready.

I walk out of the bathroom with a plan in mind. I’ll start now, start withdrawing money from my account, saving the cash. Just in case. 

On the off chance that one day, someday, before it’s too late for one or both of us, I ask Monty to leave with me and he says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET ME KNOW IF ANYTHING DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!


	13. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty and Percy return to normal life after the upheaval of the beating.

We leave the hospital the same way we arrived, but in reverse. Instead of walking into a liminal space, we exit it, and just like that all the emotions that were dredged up during our time there are packed away again, where they’ll hopefully stay. There are no threats on the horizon, Monty is on the mend, and everything is okay for now. I look up at the clear blue of the sky, so like Monty’s Color, and I can take my first deep breath in so many days. 

The first day he’s out of the hospital, Monty stays with me at my aunt and uncle’s house for a sleepover. We’ve been living together for months now but it’s still nice, to have him so close. We wave Lockwood and Scipio off and then spend the rest of the afternoon playing board games and eating cheese-itz and arguing about the merits of different artificial cheese flavors. The next day, however, Monty gives me one of his fake smiles and says he’s going home.

I want to tell him not to go, to just stay with me. I want to sit him down and keep him safe and play stupid games with him forever. I want to tell him to never go back. But I tried that, already, and the memory of him pulling his hand back from mine is still fresh on my mind. I have to let him go.

At least Felicity is there now. She won’t sit idly by anymore. She’ll stand up for him even when I can’t. I trust her.

The holidays are good, but slightly more stressful than I’d originally planned. It isn’t just the fact that Monty and Henri the Senior are in the same house, though that’s bad enough—I also missed all but one of my finals and Monty missed all of his, which means that we’re informed just before Christmas that we’re both on academic probation. As a result, I have my aunt and uncle breathing over my shoulder and ‘encouraging’ me to talk to someone about it. I can’t afford to stay at college for an extra semester—missed opportunities and all that. Thus, I spend a good week or so conversing with our professors and the school administration on both our behalves, trying to get things straightened out. ‘My Pain Pal was literally in the hospital’ is a pretty good excuse for missing finals, it turns out, though we’ll have to sit for them when we return.

Christmas comes, and I give Monty his present, a basket of cappuccino flavored kit kats that I had to buy off a Japanese website. He’s been complaining about how hard they are to find in the states ever since his family took their vacation to Japan in ninth grade—he is, predictably, thrilled. I grin, because I am an excellent gift giver. We then sneak some champagne from under the servants’ noses and sit up on the kitchen roof getting buzzed together. I have to help Monty climb up our usual way because of his ribs, but once we’re there… it’s like the entire sky and all the stars were made for us and us alone.

The rest of the week goes by fast. New years comes, and I think about the Kiss, and then new years goes and I move on. Felicity and Monty fall back into their usual bickering, sharp tongues picking each other apart, and I can feel the relief rolling off of Monty. It’s good. Not great, not with Henri the Senior always in the next room over, but we survive and that’s all I ask for.

One week after new years, we pack up and prepare for the trip out to college for the second time. We left most of our lives there, so we’re not taking the van this time, but the morning of our departure is achingly familiar aside from that. We’ll be doing exactly what we did the first time—an hour out to Felicity’s boarding school to drop her off, then four hours up to the city to get to our apartment and Lockwood. I help Monty put his suitcase in the trunk of the family car, fold myself into the backseat, and then lean back and wait for the landscape to start rolling past.

We drop Felicity off just before noon. She and Monty share their perfunctory hug, careful because his ribs are still tender, but just before we turn to leave she loops me in for one, as well. It’s a threat, more than anything, though I can’t help but enjoy it just a little. She’s about the same size as Monty now, maybe even a little taller, and she fits in my arms the same way that he does. “Call me,” she says, very seriously. I nod, and then we’re off.

We get back to the apartment before Lockwood arrives from visiting his mother to the North. It’s funny, opening the door to a space that hasn’t been lived in for a month. It gives me enough distance to survey the life we’ve put together here, to look at what we’ve made. It’s not perfect—of course it isn’t—but it’s sweet, and pleasant, and, most importantly of all, it’s far enough from home to pretend that everything is okay now. 

I flop onto the couch and close my eyes. A moment later my feet dip as Monty joins me. 

“I missed this place,” Monty says. I hum an agreement. We stay there for a while, just waiting for the heater to warm the apartment around us, and it’s nice.

Our return to classes, on the other hand, is somehow both less exciting than I’m hoping and more dramatic than I’m expecting. The story of Monty’s escapade has been passed around the entire student body several times, resulting in a rather sensationalized story that involves the two of us running away in the middle of finals to elope. Monty’s had winter break to heal but some of the deepest bruises still shadow his face as well as mine, adding another layer of mystique to the mystery. The whispers start anew the moment he shows up on campus, all about what’s up with the wayward child of the governor, the slutty tramp who wound up naked in the papers, now back with his Pain Pal and covered in a bunch of bruises from unknown origins.

I try my best to dispel the rumors that I hear. Still, it’s not like I can control the thoughts of a student body made of several thousand people. Me sticking up for Monty is one voice among a sea of dissent, and that starts to take its toll almost immediately. 

It’s soon after that that the drinking starts. Well, ‘starts’. Monty isn’t new to the concept of using alcohol to numb his pain. And I’m not new to the experience of having a Bond-high more often than not. The good news is that we’re back to the place we were before the Kiss—I can touch him, and I can brush his tousled hair back from his face when he’s too drunk to notice it’s there, and I can lean in to his good ear and tell him things, and even though it still ignites an ache inside me I’m so grateful to have what we have that I do nothing about the pain, except when it’s late at night and I’m counting out the money in my stash, thinking about someday. I just hope… well, I hope someday comes soon enough, for the both of us.

I try to resist looking at the calendar on my phone, those nights. I know what I’d see if I flipped forward seven semesters until I reached our graduation date. The day of my surgery is marked for a week after the ceremony. Far enough away that I can still pretend it’s not coming for me. Close enough that it feels inescapable.

Sighing, I fold myself into my bed, staring at the window without really seeing it. I’ve done a marvelous job of keeping it off my mind thus far, but I think it’s time to come clean. I lied a little, at the beginning of this story. So let me try again.

My name is Percy Newton, and I have a problem. I’m in love with my Soulmate. And my Soulmate… my platonic Soulmate, who is abused by his father and drinks to excess… doesn’t have a clue that I’ll be having major brain surgery to treat my epileptic seizures as soon as we’ve graduated college.

Don’t… just _don__’t_. Don’t say anything. I know. I _know_. I’m selfish, and idiotic, and I won’t be able to keep up this charade forever. But I want so badly for things to be normal, and he’s got so much pain in his life already, that I can’t… I can’t tell him. Not yet. He’ll know eventually—you can’t hide brain surgery from your Pain Pal—but for now, right now… I just want to live whatever life I can before my life as I know it comes to an end. Before I have to relearn how to function with a piece of my brain missing. Before I cause Monty even more pain in a lifetime of pain.

I sigh, pushing the thoughts away. I don’t want to think about this now. I want to—just—lay here and look out my window and think nothing until I fall asleep. For now, Monty is in the next room over and the moon is bright and we’re both safe and sound. I doze as the world around me sleeps, the moon drifts across the sky, and the night wears on.

We’ve been back a few weeks, going on like this, when the inevitable happens—Lockwood finds an empty bottle of vodka in the trash, artfully buried. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, the bottle sitting in front of him, when we arrive back from our classes Thursday night.

I reach the door first, and I freeze where I stand. The first thought that crosses my mind is oh, god, _not again_. It’s followed quickly by several more. _Not so soon _and _Monty is still recovering _and_ please, god, don__’t do this_.

Monty, meanwhile, has pushed past me and is surveying the scene with mild interest. “Decided on a bit of day drinking, eh, Lockwood?” he says, playing it cool.

Lockwood doesn’t look up. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, his posture slouched further than I’ve ever seen it. “The bottle isn’t mine. You and I both know that.”

“Right,” Monty says, and, thankfully, decides then to shut his mouth.

From there it’s a waiting game to see who will break the silence first. I dither back and forth for a while, wondering if saying something is more likely to absolve the two of us of our sins or bring the pain of punishment down on us. What is Lockwood thinking, what’s on his mind? How likely is he to call on Mr. Montague a second time, knowing now what he didn’t know then?

I’ve just about decided to speak up when Lockwood heaves a great sigh and begins to climb to his feet. “I’ve misjudged the situation that we’re in, here. Henry,” he says, and Monty flinches. Lockwood clears his throat. “Ah… Monty. I, er… I believe I owe you a bit of an apology.”

“What? Whatever for?” Monty says. I’m worried for a second that he’s messing with Lockwood, but then I realize—he sincerely has no idea.

Lockwood, meanwhile, heaves a sigh. “Your father,” he says. “I thought… I thought he wanted the best for you, and acted accordingly. I was blinded by my biases—my own father was a good man, and I forget, sometimes, that not every father is as good as he was. So I’m sorry, Monty. I won’t be giving him any more updates about you. None that he wouldn’t hear about in the papers, in any case. I don’t… condone… the drinking and the flirtations and everything else, but my personal dislike isn’t cause to allow physical harm to come to you. From now on, we’ll deal with these issues in the apartment, in a civilized way. Is that… would you grant me that?”

I smother a smile into my sleeve and look over at Monty. Monty is scoffing, an eyebrow raised, but Lockwood’s seriousness seems to be working its way through his incredulity even as I watch.

“Wait, so… you’re really not going to tell my father?” Monty asks.

“No. I’m still going to lecture you because drinking underage and lying about it is an _abhorrent_ habit to have, but no, your father will not hear about this.”

Monty contemplates this for a long moment before he bobs his head, swinging around to grab a bag of chips off the counter. He pops them open and says, “Well! In that case, feel free to lecture away, my man.”

So Lockwood does. And then, when he’s done with that, he makes us dinner and tells us stories about his late father. How the man dealt with having four sons about as varied as its possible to be, and how he supported Lockwood all his life, and how he died trying to stop a mugger hurting a young woman when Lockwood was barely fifteen. It was his father’s fortune that allowed Lockwood to pay for graduate school, and his giving nature that convinced Lockwood to mentor kids as he did. For the first time I learn that Lockwood doesn’t just go to school and watch over the two of us—he’s also a big brother at Big Brothers Big Sisters, helping out with at-risk kids whenever he finds the time. 

I’m seeing him in a new light, and it’s not bad. Not bad at all. It’s… amazing, actually. To think of Lockwood, rising up to take on the mantle of his father… Scipio and his men, working to become legitimate… Felicity, growing into a force of nature… all these people, all around us, all taking charge of their own Fates… there was a time, when I was younger, when I couldn’t imagine such a thing. I couldn’t imagine a world where my life could be more than blood draws and brain scans and pain, pain, pain. But the evidence is right in front of me—it’s inescapable.

And I think… someday… Monty and I will be free of the bindings we used to call our home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _will_ make Lockwood a sympathetic character, just _watch me_.


	14. The Rink

“_Hm hm hmm hm-hmm hm hm hm_—”

I roll over on my bed, turning my ear toward where Monty is humming in the shower. It’s a super upbeat tune, which throws me for a loop for a second—it doesn’t have the repetitiveness of his usual dance music. Then, of course, he starts singing the lyrics.

“_I think I__’ll slit my wrists again and I’m gone, gone, gone_—”

“God, what on Earth is he _singing_?” Lockwood asks, pausing just outside my door. His expression is utterly horrified.

I crack up. _That_ would be Hollywood Undead, straight from our fourteen-year-old Pain Pal angst phase. I haven’t heard that song in years. With a snort, I relax onto my pillows, abandoning my laptop and the essay I’m supposed to be working on while I wait for Monty to get ready. I am only a mortal man, after all, and Monty’s singing voice is one of my favorite things on this Earth. He’s by no means ready for a professional debut, and the song is disturbing at best, but his voice is nice because it’s _his_ voice. It’s a good way to start a night out if I do say so myself.

I sigh to myself, turning horrifying lyrics into a love song just for me.

After Monty is finished blow-drying his hair and making me change into a different outfit that better matches his, we head out for the night, taking advantage of Lockwood’s new leniency. We’ve created a pact, of sorts, with the man. He’ll allow us to go out and do what we like just so long as we don’t make it into the papers and don’t bring anything home with us. He’s still more likely to lecture us if he catches one or both of us drunk than to let it slide, but we’re coexisting easier now and that’s what counts. Besides, just being able to go out and _do_ things under our own power is a heady sensation in itself, and we’ve found that even mundane haunts are thrilling when it’s just the two of us.

Our destination tonight isn’t quite mundane, at least not to us, but neither is it some grand adventure. We’re simply existing, as normal people. Normal people who go out and have fun. Normal people who… wait, is that a roller skating rink?

…Normal people who get distracted from their original destination in order to swerve into Roller King and try roller skating for the very first time in their lives.

We pay the entrance fee and rent some skates, standing delicately once they’re laced up. So far so good. Monty tilts his head to the side when I suggest we head for the actual rink, and I lean toward him, trying to get around to his good side. It’s becoming second nature to stand by his good ear so he can hear me, but maneuvering in roller blades is tougher than I planned and I wind up wrapped around him, my wiry arms clutching his shoulders to help me keep my balance. Monty cackles, then clutches back as one of his own feet goes out from under him.

“I say, you’re acting right sloshed!” I laugh, putting on my heaviest British accent.

“And _you__’re_ acting right sozzled!” he says back, falling right into our favorite game of ‘How Posh Can We Sound?’ He then falls for real, wiping out before we’ve even hit the rink and taking me with him. We land in a heap on the floor, both of us laughing. His stinging backside makes me wince as I struggle back to my feet and offer him a hand up, and he rubs his elbow where mine is smarting.

We cling to the wall for our first pass around the rink, moving about the same pace as snails. It’s hard—my knees are unmoored, going whichever direction they so desire and refusing to do as I tell them, and I trip over my skates more than once. Monty, at my side, is barely doing any better. 

“Shambolic!” he says after nearly colliding with a six-year-old child who is moving twice our pace. “We’re going to go for a Burton at this rate!”

I laugh. “So bog standard for the two of us, eh?” I say. I’m fairly certain that we’ll never catch up to the slower skaters, making ourselves a hazard the entire time. A few more rounds, however, and we’ve started to get the hang of it. 

We’ve _also_ gotten at least five odd looks because of the accents. I can’t tell if people are seeing through us or if they actually believe we’re from across the pond, but the smile on Monty’s face makes me not care much either way. 

He’s gotten louder since losing half his hearing. I can easily hear him laughing over the music in the rink, and the spinning lights above us light his face here and there in vibrant colors, and he grabs my hand to keep his balance and… I’m in love. From a distance, sure, but my heart is beating, exuberant and spirited in my chest, and that’s all I need. This will sustain me, my mind and soul.

Just like nacho cheese, shoveled onto chips at the snack counter, will sustain my body. It’s decadent, depraved, hedonistic—I watch with maybe a little too much attention as Monty gets it all over his fingers and then licks it all off again. It’s unbecoming for the son of the governor, but neither of us care, caught up in our own little world.

It’s simple. It’s good. We skate until our knees are too bruised to walk without holding each other up, and just like that, we move on. We give up our skates and head back home, and from there our lives go on, the same as ever. 

Time moves forward. We’re happy.

Before I know it we’ve finished our second semester, our finals completed without much fuss and no calls home. No one makes it into the papers again that year. Summer comes, and Lockwood offers to stick around if we want to take some summer classes—we both accept. I get a start on my business minor, and Monty gets into some theater classes to counteract the dullness of his political science major. He’s good at it, maybe because of all the cheating we used to do when we played cards against Richard Peele and company. Or maybe not, maybe he was just born to wear stage make-up and project his voice. Either way, walking him home every night as he tells me all about stage directions and practical effects and his latest scripts becomes a favorite pastime of mine.

Our second year of college pans out much better than the first. There are a few ups, a few downs, but nothing particularly newsworthy. I take my pills every day and keep up with my diet, and three, four, five months without a seizure later I start to hope that I won’t have to have surgery after all. Monty’s drinking starts to go down a bit as the rumor mill chills out and he goes longer and longer without seeing his father, and I can almost convince myself that the alcohol is just for recreation instead of an ineffective-if-not-destructive coping mechanism. It’s almost down to a twice-a-week event—just Friday and Saturday nights—when we arrive on deck for our junior year.

We’ve gone lone enough without an incident that it only takes a few weeks of begging and extra good behavior for Henri the Senior to allow us to go abroad for a semester. Lockwood, as expected, is coming with to keep us honest, but little does Mr. Montague know that our agreement with him still stands—as long as we don’t publicly embarrass ourselves or bring trouble home with us, we’re free, free, free to do as we please.

That’s how we find ourselves our first night in Paris, one disgustingly long plane ride later. We’re walking around the international dorm of the sister college that resides there, looking for people who will go out drinking with us to toast the fact that we’re legally allowed to drink despite being a few months off from our 21st birthdays. The dorms here are co-ed, four people to each apartment-style room, and we go neatly down the line introducing ourselves and inviting people out on the town, our treat.

We get a few takers. It’s a beautiful city, after all—except the parts where it’s rushed and frenetic and loud. It’s made entirely of architectural masterpieces, art at every corner paired with haughty, uptight people who look down their noses at us, a pair of Americans. All the same, Monty is immediately taken by the fashion, and all the pretty people wearing it, and I watch him as he watches them, wriggling his eyebrows.

It’s then that we get to door 407, and our pleasant evening comes crashing down about our ears.

It starts when a woman maybe three years older than us opens the door. She’s got olive skin, not quite as dark as mine, and she’s wearing a crop top and a knee-length skirt over a tight spandex jumpsuit. She looks down on Monty from a decent height. He stares back, gaze slipping down to her bust. I try not to roll my eyes. I’m not entirely sure I succeed.

“Sí?” the woman says, shifting on her feet. “Us puc ajudar?”

It’s not quite Spanish, not quite French, but something in between. Catalan, if I had to take a guess. It’s one of those things that I feel like Felicity would know, for whatever odd reason that Felicity just happens to know the answer to just about any question we happen to ask.

Monty, not knowing a lick of any language outside of English and French, stares. Then he opens his mouth and all hell breaks loose.

I’m not sure what it is—perhaps the fact that he’s speaking English?—but the words “Hi, would you like to go out with us tonight?” ignites a fire in this woman’s eyes. She jerks back, a waterfall of Catalan falling from her lips, anger and righteousness rising like bubbles in a pot, boiling right over. Monty steps forward, his hand outstretched in alarm, and she makes a valiant effort to slam the door in our faces.

I wince as a shock of pain drives up my foot from where Monty’s shoe is caught in the door. Monty goes rigid, voicing a high-pitched yelp. I try to pull him back but he’s trapped tight, foot caught between the door and the jam, the woman still yelling what now sounds like curses in every language she can think of.

I’m panicked, worried that we’re going to get kicked out and sent home our very first night here, willing to haul Monty away just to get the yelling to stop, when a voice behind us says, very softly, “Què fas tots?”

The woman stops trying to squeeze Monty’s foot into submission, and Monty and I turn as one to find a paler but also olive-toned man, maybe a year or so older than Felicity, standing behind us. He’s in an enormous hoodie, which he’s using to clean a pair of equally enormous glasses. He crams them onto his nose and squints between us and the woman.

The two of them have a quick conversation over our heads in what must be their native tongue. It takes them what feels like forever to come to any sort of agreement, and then the woman is turning on a heel and beckoning us into the apartment.

Monty and I exchange a look. “You first,” Monty says magnanimously.

I grunt, taking a deep breath and bracing myself just in case a baseball bat is about to come into contact with my face. I’m no good at protecting myself—I think, if I really needed to, I could swing the violin from my back and give someone a good solid smack, but it’s all theoretical at this point. 

Thankfully, nothing comes for me, and I don’t need to unsheathe my weapon. Instead I come into a cluttered livingspace, full off all kinds of detritus that clearly means they’ve been here far longer than we have. Books are piled up behind the couch—boxes, all marked in Catalan, are stacked up around the walls. Monty peeks into one and then beckons me over, gesturing in—there’s a crystallophone carefully tucked away inside.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says then, standing in front of the stove. She’s turning a dial, cranking up the heat for an old-fashioned kettle. Her accent is heavy—maybe not as heavy as Scipio’s, but it’s clear that she doesn’t speak English with ease.

“Ah, no worries,” Monty says, moving a stack of newspapers off a chair and collapsing into it. He makes himself at home as I smile politely at the younger man who followed us inside. “I thought for a moment that we offended you somehow.”

The woman’s nostrils flare. “We—”

The man coughs.

The woman sighs and restarts. “_I_ am… not fond of Americans. It is something I am trying to fix.”

“Ah,” Monty says. He shifts in his seat. “Well. Sorry about coming to your door and all that, I just thought—”

The woman cuts him off. “Please. No propositions until we’ve had tea.”

‘_Propositions_?’ I mouth, while Monty smothers a laugh into his fist. That isn’t why we came, though looking at the way Monty’s eyes have found the woman’s backside he’s definitely considering it now. This time I do roll my eyes.

The man shifts, wringing his hands in a nervous habit. “So… what brings you to France?” he asks.

“Maybe we aught to introduce ourselves before we get into that,” I suggest. “I’m Percy.”

“Monty,” Monty says.

“Dante.” The man raises a hand in a funny little wave.

Then, last but not least… “Helena.” The woman smiles at us, sharper and more calculating than any smile I’ve ever seen before.

And just like that, we meet Helena Robles, the end of everything as we’ve ever known it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not enthused about this chapter!! I just... need to get it up tho...
> 
> [THE SONG THAT MONTY IS SINGING.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP077RitNAc)


	15. The Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty gets a Parisian tattoo, as you do.

The next few days we spend mostly in room 407. Helena and Dante are interesting people, and Monty is drawn to Helena’s… interestingly cut shirts. We learn quickly that the two of them are siblings, they’re also studying abroad, they’re from Catalonia, Spain, and they’re kind of dodgy about other personal questions. Monty presses at first, until Helena snaps in his face that their father is dead, after which Monty shuts his mouth and looks at me like I can fish him out of the hole he’s dug himself into.

I sigh and do my best. “So, Helena, we noticed you have a crystallophone. Do you play?”

“It was my father’s,” she says shortly. 

Welp.

“Oh would you look at that, my mother is calling,” Monty says, looking at his phone. It’s not subtle, as far as distractions go, seeing as he tends to leave his mother to his voicemail more often than he actually answers her, but I let him have it. He hauls himself to his feet, already swiping open facetime. 

I roll my eyes, turning to Dante, who is huddled up amid what could be the debris of a book-specific tornado. He’s into language, from what I’ve gathered—translations of ancient scripts and deciphering dead languages, mostly. His glasses are sliding down his nose as he hauls a giant dictionary up to his nose to get a better look at it. I couldn’t tell you what language the dictionary was in, but he seems to know what he wants, flipping through the pages animatedly.

It’s a stark difference to how he is when faced with people. Even around his sister he’s bumbling and awkward, the kind of person who fumbles sentences due to a constant case of nerves. And it’s a stark difference, again, from his sister—Helena is sharp, a wicked knife-blade of a human, forged from briers and thorns. She seems to tolerate us at best sometimes.

“So,” I say to Dante, folding my arms across my chest. He jumps a little, owl eyes focusing on me. “What are you working on?”

I hate to admit it, but the moment he starts talking about cuneiform tablets my brain logs off and I’m left nodding along to a bunch of words I don’t understand. It’s much more complicated than my own classes here—my days are filled with nothing but music and my last science pre-req, biology. I’m in Paris, playing violin while surrounded by art and beauty at every turn, and if that isn’t romantic I don’t know what is.

Well. It would be, at least, if Monty were at all interested. But he’s not, or at least… not anymore. I had my shot, years ago, with a poem and a kiss, and now I’m living in a life after rejection.

Which, whatever. I’ll live. Probably.

…As long as Monty doesn’t get that Look in his eyes, that sparkly ‘I’m about to do something very stupid and you’re along for the ride’ look that I can see peeking through his nonchalance as soon as he comes back inside. He’s gotten something stuck in his head, like toffee, impossible to shake loose.

“How’s your mother?” I ask, testing the waters.

Monty rolls his eyes. “She thinks I’m going to do something stupid, like get a tattoo,” he says. There’s a pause, and I can literally see the idea growing in his mind, pushing into his consciousness. I try not to groan as he bites his lip for a moment, then says, “Hey Percy… I have an idea…”

It’s a bad idea. The worst idea. And yet I know, even now, that Monty isn’t going to let it go. He’s giving me his best puppy-dog eyes even as I groan.

“What’s going on?” Helena asks. Her sharp eyes are flicking back and forth between us, calculating.

Monty grins, leaning into my space. I lean away, planting a hand over his face. “My dearest idiot of a Pain Pal, here, wants to get a tattoo,” I say. I then turn to him. “Do you even know what you’d get? Tattoos are permanent fixtures on both halves of a Pain Bond, I hope you remember that.”

“Ah, so you’ll want me to get a massive facial tattoo of a meme, then,” Monty says, and laughs as I make a face.

Helena, still watching us, lifts a mug to her lips. I think she’s content to watch us go back and forth, Monty doing his damnedest to needle his way under my skin and me just trying not to give him the satisfaction, but instead she pipes up with a, “You’ll probably want some noratrix, if you’re going with him.”

“Some what?” I ask, leaning so far away from Monty that I’ve nearly unseated myself.

“Noratrix. You can’t take it for the tattoo itself, so Monty would be out of luck—” He pouts. “—But it dulls the pain on the recipient’s side of the Bond. It’s illegal in France, but I can get you some if you want.”

I pretend to consider this. A drug that lowers the pain of a recipient bond… it’s an interesting concept. Many cultures forbid the use of such drugs just because they consider it a spit in the face of Fate to thwart the Pain, especially for things like childbirth. They’re also almost impossible to dose properly—Felicity has told me about it before. Something about having to judge the strength of a bond AND body weight AND tolerance… it gets complicated.

In the end, I turn down the offer. I assume that’ll be the end of it, but… with our luck… well. Suffice to say that a seed had thus been planted. 

That’ll come soon enough. Right now, I’m standing at the counter of a tattoo parlor in the Northern part of Paris, bouncing nervously on my toes as Monty talks to a tattoo artist in stilted French.

“Something, ah, what’s the word… tasteful?” he says hopefully, waving a hand as if to help waft the word over.

Tasteful. God. This is the worst idea we’ve ever had. 

They decide on a design while I’m occupied with cringing at the sound of tattoo guns buzzing in the distance. “And this is your Pain Pal?” the lady asks in heavily accented English, looking over at me. I nod. “Ah. I see. You will both need to sign the Pain Bond waiver, to say that you both consent to this procedure. After that we will get started.”

I wince at the word ‘procedure’. Too many of the worst days of my life have been preceded by the word ‘procedure’. Blood draws and lumbar punctures and intentionally triggering a seizure to get an EEG… yeah, no. Still, I sign the damn paper, screwing my courage to the sticking place as I do. It’s for Monty. I’d do anything for Monty.

“This’ll be fun!” Monty says, linking his elbow with mine as the lady leads us to a little cubicle with a two chairs. I highly doubt that, mostly because I’m already feeling shaky at the very idea of needles breaking his skin, but I do my best not to smother his enthusiasm. I can’t be upset when Monty is happy, and he’s definitely happy now. Even when he’s about to subject me to what may be the worst pain of my life, in a foreign country, like an idiot.

The wait is the worst. The tattoo artist talks as she preps her tattoo gun and the station and the ink—all about the French laws concerning Pain Pals and tattoos, how you have to bring your Pain Pal with you because too many people got into car accidents when their Pain Pal sat for a tattoo. Distracted driving at its finest. She then tells us about a particularly gory story from when she was a kid—her father, who was a tattoo artist before her, once had a man in the chair who claimed he didn’t have a Pain Bond. 

Everything was fine until the moment it wasn’t. The dude started screaming and crying, curled up around his leg, because his Pain Pal had crashed his car and broken his femur. It only took the ambulance seven minutes to arrive for him, but by the time it got there he was unresponsive. He and his Pain Pal both died in the ICU later that night.

And with that, the lady begins.

It’s… not as bad as I was lead to believe it would be, honestly. Monty chose a long black swan placed on his arm with its wing fanning down his elbow and its neck curled around the outside of his shoulder, all stark black ink and pointillism shading on the pale white of his skin. I’ve never been able to see a Mark forming on my own skin before, and I watch in fascination as the skin of my own shoulder turns Monty’s Blue in the shape of the swan. It’s not quite as stark on me as it is on Monty, with the blue just a shade lighter than my natural skin tone, but it’s beautiful in a different way.

Monty, meanwhile, starts off strong but is soon hissing under his breath as the needle makes its passes along his skin, breathing slowly though the pain. He has to take a break about ten minutes in, breathing carefully. 

“What, were you not ready for the pain?” I ask teasingly.

He winces. “I’m never ready for the pain,” he mutters.

I shut my mouth.

Still, it’s not so bad. Something about being able to control when the pain stops and starts gives Monty a little more confidence as the afternoon goes on. He’s laughing and joking with the tattoo artist by the time we’re done, and he offers his debit card with a smile on his face once it's over. I shudder to think of what his father will say when he sees a charge of several hundred dollars for a tattoo parlor in Paris, but we’re far enough away that it doesn’t matter. Henri the Senior will have to wait until we’re back state-side if he wants to put up a fuss.

The tattoo artist then offers me a half-off deal on what she calls a 'Contour de la Douleur', or outline of the pain, which consists of a thin black line outlining the Mark of a tattoo, one that will show up on Monty's skin as an outline in my Color. I accept and sit for the pain.

We leave the tattoo parlor wrapped up in clear plastic bandages. Monty has a flannel with him, but the tattoo hurts enough that he doesn’t want the shirt brushing against it, a decision that I agree with. We start walking down the street toward the tram to get back to the dorms.

About halfway there we’re stopped by a young teenager in designer clothes. “Bonjour,” she says, and then asks in quick French if she can see Monty's tattoo. Monty, bemused, pulls out his phone to show off the pictures he snapped in the mirror just before we left. I lift my short sleeve when the kid then asks if we’re Pain Pals, and if I’m Marked, too.

That starts a conversation about Pain Pals that attracts several passersby. It isn’t unheard of, in America, to discuss Pain Bonds so openly—people are generally very open about Pain Pals and Pain Bonds. Pleasure Bonds, on the other hand, are a very different story. It’s like… a mix between asking a trans person about their genitals and asking about someone’s sex life. It’s considered a very intimate thing, and it’s very disrespectful to ask if a couple has a Pleasure Bond because not everyone marries their Pleasure Partner in this day and age. As such, Monty and I both go red when someone asks how our Pleasure Partners feel about the tattoo.

“I don’t—_we_ don’t—” I start, and then pause, because I can’t actually speak for Monty in matters of Pleasure. I know I don’t have a Pleasure Bond—how can I if I’ve never been intimate with anyone?—but Monty… Monty has had many, many, _many_ partners and fuck if I know for sure that he’s never found his Pleasure Bond. I mean, I’d hope that he would tell me so that I could finally, maybe, get over him, but… god, this is getting away from me.

Monty, meanwhile, is laughing. It’s only by the faint flush of his cheeks that I can tell he’s embarrassed. “There’s no Pleasure Partners to tell,” he says, and okay, thank god. I was getting ready to throw myself into the nearest ocean. I cover my face with my hands until the French people all around us are done chuckling at our expense. I have never felt more like a tourist and a spectacle than I do right now.

Soon enough the prodding dies down, and the Parisians all return to their previous business. The teenager waves goodbye. I tug my sleeve back down over the new Mark on my arm and pretend that I don’t suddenly miss being home, on familiar soil, with familiar customs. Monty is tilting his head at me, a smile quirking his lips, and I prod him in the side before starting off again.

We get home at the same time as Lockwood, who gives us a Look. He then sighs and closes his eyes. “Long sleeves in the apartment so I have plausible deniability,” he says, sliding the key into the lock to let us in.

It’s nice to be back in the dorms. The tattoo adventure was pretty fun after all, but I’m glad to be somewhere where I can collapse onto my front and bury my face in a pillow.

“Do you want me to drink for you?” Monty asks, yawning, from the short hallway.

“Nah,” I say into the couch cushion. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. You should go to bed.”

“Yeah…” he says, yawning again. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

I roll over and watch him all the way down the hall, his gait steady and his back straight, and the idea that being an ocean away from his family is probably the best thing to ever happen to Henry ‘Monty’ Montague crosses my mind, there and gone in a blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having never been to Paris, and having googled the bare minimum about Parisian people... I hope this is okay.
> 
> ALSO I HAVE A SKETCH OF MONTY'S TATTOO!! [It would probably be a little smaller than this but this is what I was thinking when I wrote it.](https://a-ghost-named-k.tumblr.com/post/189120004026/a-quick-and-dirty-concept-sketch-of-montys-tattoo)


	16. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy and Monty spend Halloween in France.

By the time our tattoos have healed (a month, give or take) Helena has started to warm up to us. Well, not ‘us’ so much as Monty, who has started shamelessly flirting with her at every opportunity. I think he does it just because it’s something familiar and not because he’s actually interested, but it’s hard to tell for sure. It’s not quite mutual—I get the sense that Helena tolerates it more than reciprocates it—but we haven’t been kicked out of their apartment yet so I leave them be. They’ll… figure themselves out.

October comes, and with it Halloween. I don’t expect it to be the same abroad, so I’m pleasantly surprised by the fact that the RAs at the dorm encourage us to dress up and go out for the night. Before we do that, however, we run into a sign at a market near the dorms encouraging us to _tailler une citrouille_, a sign that captures Monty’s attention the moment he spots it. Pumpkin carving isn’t as widespread in Paris as it is in the states, but the practice is still there, and we get about eight of them to carve, just in case.

It’s a good thing, too. Even with Helena, Dante, and Lockwood taking a pumpkin each we need the extras. Neither Monty nor I am what you’d call an artist, and we didn’t get to do this as kids. Me because I got sick too often and usually missed Halloween, including trick-or-treating, and Monty because Henri the Senior did everything he could to discourage trick-or-treaters coming through the gates of the Montague Mansion. It’s fine, though, because it’s better late than never, and we get to do it now. We’re clumsy, and the art isn’t great, and we screw up at least three pumpkins trying to get the tops off (in the end Helena has to do Monty’s for him) but Monty gets totally focused on the task of scooping out the seeds and I can’t help it—I get lost in the picture of his hair tied back from his face and tucked behind his ears, his lips pouted as he concentrates, occasionally busting out a laugh at something Helena says.

It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. And I love him with all my aching heart.

The night is sweet and crisp, the air cool enough to warrant light jackets when we head out. The city center is packed with people—mostly drunk, at this point in the evening. We leave Lockwood to his own devices and buy a pair of masks, covering our faces with comically enhanced visages with oddly proportioned features. A fair is set up along the Seine River, and we link arms as we wander through it, occasionally paying a few coins for a trinket or a hot bun to eat. We’re a little old to trick-or-treat but we say the words anyway, thanking the people that offer us candies and laughing off the ones who don’t. Everyone is lively, and it feels good.

That’s when we pass the little herbalist booth, the one with a squat, grey-haired man sitting behind the counter with a bunch of bottles on shelves behind him.

“I can read your Pain,” he calls, as I cast a vague glance at his wares. I’m not much for herbs and natural remedies—a lot of them mess with my medication—but he seems sincere enough.

“No thanks. I’m good, old man,” Monty says, not looking over.

“Don’t be rude,” I say. I mean it to be just for Monty, a slight admonishment, but the old man in question hears and waves my concern away. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just worried, is all. You’ve a strong Bond between you, yet something is amiss.”

I pause. “Amiss?” I ask.

“Yes, about your Pain Bond. There’s a strain to it.”

Monty scoffs, starting to walk away. “Of _course_ there’s a strain to it! You say that to everyone who passes you, I’m sure. How else would you sell your potions?”

“Wait, Monty.” I take a step closer to the little shop and the old man within it. “What do you mean ‘strain’?”

He shakes his head, reaching behind him for a tincture. “The threads of Fate are like a spider's web. When a fly gets stuck—or one of you gets hurt—the threads pull and you can feel the strain. Your thread… it has been pulling for a while, no?”

I’m not sure if I believe that. Still, I’m not sure if I don’t, either. “What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the little bottle in his hand.

The man smiles, something bright and friendly but calculated to be so. “A psychic balm for a troubled Bond. I think you could use it.”

I’m trying to figure out a way to politely decline when Monty rolls his eyes and tugs me along. “Trust you to fall for a quack herbalist,” he says, and I mutter a ‘hey’ because really, does he actually think I was planning to buy it? I’m not naive. At least, not about this.

We get split up just before the fair lights up their nightly fireworks. The crowds are getting thinner now as the night gets colder, but there are still enough people enjoying their drink that I think we blend in just fine. I’m soon to rethink that, however. I’ve just bought us a pair of croissants when Monty stumbles from the crowd with a panicked expression on his face. 

“We’ve got to go!” he gasps, grabbing me by the elbow. I start to protest—he’ll make me drop a croissant—but then he’s pulling us both down and into the nearest alcove, which just so happens to be behind the herbalist’s counter.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper, but Monty shushes me, peering over the edge of the counter and studiously ignoring the way the old man is staring at us both.

That’s when I catch it—the sound of rowdy laughter, a voice Monty and I have been studiously avoiding since the absolute fiasco of the winter parade freshman year.

“I think I saw that little freak over here,” Duke says, and heavy football-player footsteps crunch through the gravel on the other side of the booth.

“Hiding, are we?” the old man asks softly, from the corner of his mouth. He’s refocused on the band of jocks as they slowly pass on by, eyeing them up and down.

“Yes, now don’t draw attention to them,” Monty hisses back. I clap a hand over my mouth, holding in a nervous giggle that wants to work its way free. I had no idea that Duke Bourbon was in Paris with us—we must have missed him on the flight over. By the sound of it he’s still exquisitely pissed about the whole deal with Monty and his sister.

“Gentleman!” the old man calls, heedless of Monty. “Can I interest you in a balm for that sunburn?”

“No, but you can tell me if you’ve seen a short American girl pretending to be a boy come through here,” Duke says.

There’s a pause as the old man feigns thinking for far longer than I think necessary. “No… no… no one comes to mind with that description. Are you sure about the balm? It’ll ease the peeling, I promise it.”

There’s some muttering, then a few coins hit the counter. The old man reaches past us in the cramped space, not looking down, and delivers the balm to Duke. The entire transaction feels like it takes centuries, but it can’t take more than two minutes, and then the boys are moving on, looking for us where we won’t be found.

Beside me, Monty goes limp, his breath leaving him in a rush of air. “Thank you, sir,” I say. I start to stand, but the herbalist halts me, pressing down on my shoulder until I’ve sat back down.

“You need someone to look after you tonight,” he says. “Here, the fireworks are about to begin—we can view them from my humble home.”

I’m not sure why he’s offering to look after us—maybe he’s still hoping to sell us a tincture after all—but after exchanging a look with Monty, I agree. The old man stands, packs up his wares, and then, without further ado, begins to lead us at a leisurely pace to the edge of the river.

The boats are beautiful, all linked together and covered in colored flags and other decorations. The people of the fair have gathered close to the water, where a woman is setting up rows and rows of fireworks, ready to light them. The herbalist—Pascal, he introduces himself—greets people as we make our way through. 

Two women stand out to me as we come up to a mid-sized boat mored on the riverbank. They’re dressed all in black, from head to toe, with thick black veils covering their faces, and they seem to be waiting for us. 

“Ah, _senyores_ Ernesta Herrera and Eva Davila,” Pascal says, as we get level with the women.

“Collecting more strays, Pascal?” asks the one named Ernesta. Pascal laughs and helps them aboard the boat before turning to us and offering a hand across. Once on the deck he ducks into the cabin and comes back out with a small bottle of strong spirits, which he offers to Monty and me. Monty takes some—I don’t. 

From there the rest of our night is pleasant. The fireworks go off, vivid bursts of color against an indigo sky, and Monty leans his head against my shoulder. Then Pascal pulls out a deck of playing cards and invites us all to a game.

Eva wins all four rounds, despite speaking no English or French, much to my chagrin. Ernesta has to translate for her as Monty asks questions—where they’re from, and why they’re here, and why the veils, etc, etc, etc. I’d elbow him for prying but the women seem content enough to answer—they tell us about being cast out of Spain, how they can never again go home.

“In Catalonia,” Ernesta says, her voice rich and deep in the night, “there is a legend about Soulmates that we hold very dear. It’s said that twice a year, on one of two hallowed nights, you can speak to your Soulmate no matter where on this Earth you are. It’s said that that on those nights, the spirits choose the Bonds of the babies in their mothers’ wombs, the babies yet to come—those nights the veil between worlds is as thin and light as cobwebs, and the deceased watch over the living and the living feed the spirits of the deceased, and all life is bound in a circle.”

She pauses there, Eva whispering in her ear, then she nods and raises her head to gaze at the stars. “_Gaireb__é estem allà, estimada_,” she says, and I grab hold of Monty’s hand in the light of flickering candles and hold tight.

Later, Ernesta catches Monty partway through another drink, bringing out a different deck of cards. She lets him shuffle them, lets him chose five cards. Then she slowly begins to turn them over. I’m not close enough to hear what she says to him, but she leaves him looking soft, contemplative. She then makes her way to me. She takes one look at my face and a laugh creaks from her throat. 

“You’re scared,” she says. “There is no need to be scared.”

“I’m not,” I say. I shiver a little in the night. “I’m nervous. There’s a difference.”

She shakes her head, settling down. Her black skirts pool around her like ink. “You must believe in the will of the universe,” she comments.

I dither a little. Monty, I know, believes in Fate about as far as Soulbonds go and not much further. He takes after his sister in matters of fortune-telling. Divination and card-reading are, to them, something that quacks and conmen practice. 

Me, on the other hand… I’m not sure what I believe in. I’m not a skeptic, by any means, it’s just that I feel like I haven’t seen enough of the world to make any sort of sense of it. People like Ernesta… they’ve seen things. They’ve experienced things. They know the shape of the energy threading through the universe, and they’ve conversed with it. I feel as if were I to try something like that I’d spontaneously combust. It’s a healthy kind of fear.

And yet it’s like I can’t help myself when she holds the deck out to me.

“One card,” I say, swallowing. “Just one.”

“One is all you need, sometimes,” she says, and then I’ve shuffled and drawn and handed it over.

There’s silence for a moment after she flips the card. The picture is of a young man seemingly hung by the foot from a post, a light expression on his face. I can’t read the words—they must be in Catalan—but I get the distinct sense that they should mean something to me. I wait.

“Ah,” Ernesta says finally. “I had suspected something was off, but…”

“What is it?” I ask, desperate to understand just what it is all these people can see that I can’t. Pascal’s insight into me and Monty’s Pain Bond and now this… I’m at the edge of my seat in anticipation.

Ernesta starts slowly. “The card itself is called the Hanged Man,” she says, indicating the figure’s bound foot. “But despite how that sounds, there is no violence in the hanging. The hanged man chooses to suspend himself—it is an act of free will, though often a misplaced one. Those who hang themselves this way are often unwilling to view the world as it is—they are happy with an upside-down view. Or, at least, pretend to be.”

I take my time turning that over in my head. I’m still turning it over by the time Lockwood finds us and we bid the people of the fair goodbye, promising that we’ll be back at least once before they leave. The way she said it… with an inexplicable sadness, a yearning… that’s what really gets me about the hanged man. If I were to guess just from her tone she has much experience with hanged men.

And I… I’ve never paused to think about my own place, my view of the world. What if I_ am_ content with something I’ve created, something fabricated and fake? What if I’ve shoehorned myself into something I don’t really want? I look over at Monty, and… what if?

I’m thinking a hundred thoughts a second when we make it back to the dorms. “I hope you had a good night out,” Helena says from the doorway of 407. I look up, distracted.

Monty is already grinning, his dimples showing. “Of course we did!” he says, and then dives into a lowdown of the night, from the card reading to the fireworks to Pascal and his tinctures.

Helena huffs when he reaches that part. “That side of the road junk? It’s hardly worth the coins it costs. My father was working on—”

She cuts herself off, her face suddenly going pinched.

“Well,” Dante says, a moment later, into the awkward silence. “I think, um… that’s our cue to turn in for, for the night? So… yeah, okay, goodbye.”

We bid the two of them goodnight and head to our own rooms. Felicity calls just as we get in, and Monty puts her on speakerphone. I’m tired but I don’t get to talk to her as often as I like so I sit up with him, listening to her complain about a new girl in the pre-med course she’s enrolled in. Sim, I think the name is. An interesting name. Felicity seems equal parts enamored and unwilling to admit exactly how enamored she is.

As she goes on I drift a little, and then a little more, and then a little more, until my mind is a mixing bowl full of dead fathers and hanged men and crowns topping cleavers, Marks on skin and mistakes made and on and on and on… and I wonder if maybe I’m not as happy as I pretend after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ADDED A LITTLE LINE ABOUT FELICITY IN THE SECOND CHAPTER: “Felicity is extra careful to pull her sleeve down over the green Mark on her forearm.” It's the Crown and Cleaver, in case you didn't catch that ;D


	17. The Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracy abounds, and secrets are kept.

I am a practical person. Oh sure, I have my moments of whimsical fantasy, my fair share of drama and theatrics. I’m not sure I’d survive a life Bound to Monty if I didn’t. But all in all, after everything is said and done, my nature is to be sensible, to do what makes sense to keep us going day after day after day.

The issue is that I’m no longer sure what that is.

Time plows on. All Saints Day passes us by, and we help the locals clean up the cemetery on the edge of the city. My classes come, I play my violin, and then they go again. We visit the fair. I don’t think about the fact that our adventure will soon be at its end, except for late at night, when the hanged man dogs my vision and I sigh at the barely-familiar cityscape outside my window.

I miss home. I miss home, and I don’t know how to get back.

Part of the problem, I find, is that I’m not sure where ‘home’ is anymore. I’ve had fleeting glimpses of it, on and off for the past few years, but ever since the end of high school and the disaster of our gap year I’ve been adrift. My old home, my aunt and uncle’s house, has become something tense and unrecognizable. Their silent pressure—to do the surgery, to get ‘fixed’ and become ‘normal’—has overridden whatever comfort I once found there. The Montague house, though a staple of my childhood, was never anyone’s home, not even Monty’s. Our apartment in the states with Lockwood comes the closest—it’s almost entirely our own, but still… there’s something missing. It’s incomplete.

I wonder what, exactly, I’m looking for. What it is that I haven’t yet found.

And then, all at once, I stop wondering, because holy _hell_, Monty, you did _what_?

He holds his hands up and gives me one of his winning smiles. “I looked up Mateu Robles,” he says again, as if I missed him the first time. I didn’t. “Turns out he’s not dead, he’s in prison.”

Life is like a game of dominoes, and if I knew what to watch for I would have realized that Monty had just put down the first one. I don’t, however, and the significance of this passes me right by. I’ll come to understand it, in time, but for now…

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me get this straight. You looked up Helena and Dante’s dead father… found out he’s _not_ dead… and, what? Now you want to have tea in prison with the man?”

“Well, not tea, we’re not English,” Monty says. Then he finger guns at me, his dimples carved deep into his cheeks.

I could strangle him.

“Okay,” I sigh, falling into a chair. “Fine. Just one question—why did Helena lie about this?”

That one stumps Monty. He thinks hard on it for a few minutes and comes up with nothing substantial. I’m about to sigh again and tell him to drop it, to stop messing with things that don’t involve him, when he whips out his phone and sends out a text before I can stop him.

“There,” he says, “I asked her. Now we’ll know. Or she won’t respond, sneak into our apartments tonight, and murder us while we sleep. Either way.”

…This man is going to be the death of me. 

There is no text. Instead, five minutes later, there’s a frantic knock on the door. I answer it, opening it slowly in case something heavy is aimed at my face, but Helena doesn’t have a weapon—instead she has a very odd look on her face.

“You,” she says, advancing into the room and pointing at Monty’s chest. Monty points at himself as if to say ‘me?’ “You… you found something about my father? How? Where? _How_?”

She stalks across the room as she says it, manic and frenzied. Monty, a man who will never hold up under any form of duress whatsoever and knows it well, instantly breaks. “In a US federal database!” he squeaks, leaning back and away from her. “I used my dad’s password!”

Helena drags her hands down her face, staring at him like she can dissect him with her eyes. “…Who is your father?” she asks finally.

“Our governor.”

“I didn’t vote for him,” I say, my face twisting up. 

Helena still looks confused, so Monty clarifies. “Henri Montague. Ah, the fourth,” he tacks on a moment later, as if that needs clarifying as well.

At that Helena’s face twists, too. “Your father…” she says. The disgust is palpable in her voice. “…He is a vile man.”

“I hear you, sister,” Monty says, but I shush him, asking, “What happened?”

“When Dante was a baby,” she begins, speaking slow and careful as if she isn’t sure how much to give away, “my parents got work visas in the USA to do a trial on a drug that Spain would not approve. We lived there for three years. Your father… he was part of the committee that deported me, Dante, and my mother when my mother became sick from the trial and they could no longer pay their bills. Shortly after returning home, my mother fell into a coma. My father… he wanted to stay to finish the trial, because it was what she would have wanted, but…”

Here she pauses, her dark eyes staring at Monty. I offer her a chair and she slowly sits down in it, her face pale. “But…?” I prompt.

“But he lost his visa and everything spiraled out of control. He moved out of the USA, and came to France, trying to continue his work. Soon after that, we lost contact with him. He stopped calling, stopped writing. And then the authorities contacted us to say that he’d died under mysterious circumstances. We came here to collect his things and get his body so he could be buried in our family’s plot in Catalonia, but they wouldn’t release it to us. We thought the government was just holding out on us. And yet _you_—you say he’s_ alive_.”

“Yes. That’s what the US government thinks, anyway. They think he’s working as a doctor in a French prison,” Monty says. He then looks at me like a deer in the headlights as a tear traces its way down Helena’s angled cheek. She brushes it away almost absently, as if she barely even noticed it was there to begin with. Still, it’s enough to freak both me and Monty right the hell out, because seeing Helena cry is like seeing Felicity cry—it just doesn’t happen.

And then, her expression hardening into resolve, Helena says, “We need to go see him. _You_ need to go see him.”

This time it’s my turn to point at myself. Helena nods seriously, her eyes flashing. It’s at this point in time that I feel the need to say that I don’t think this is a good idea. 

I’m overruled. Because of course I am. Government conspiracies and faked deaths and whatever else are _obviously_ something we need to get involved in.

Me, Helena, and Monty crowd into room 407 moments later, disturbing Dante from his studies, to figure out how to get into the prison. The four of us talk late into the night, trying to work out something that won’t cause anyone any permanent harm. Finally, nearing midnight, we settle on a plan. As the only cis man aside from Dante, who is too nervous to take the role, I’ll be committing a minor misdemeanor in order to get into the holding cell of the Parisian prison where Dr. Robles is currently stationed. I’ll get in, fake a medical emergency, get to see the doctor, figure out what the hell is going on, and then get bailed out by Monty. 

Despite all our precautions, it’s a dangerous plan. Not only will this result in my arrest, it may also result in our expulsion from the university. I remind Monty that this could affect him, as well—we’re registered Pain Pals, and according to the French version of the Bonnie and Clyde Laws, he’s guilty until proven innocent if I’m convicted of a crime. He waves me off. 

We bank on setting our plan in motion the next day. It’ll be a Saturday, the perfect day to get in some trouble, and I’m absolutely dreading it. I can barely sleep.

Which is why I’m surprised to find myself on the hallway floor, my head sticky and my limbs trembling, alone in the darkness, as if I’ve just woken up. 

It takes me a while to work out what must have happened—a seizure. Because of course it was. Because my life can never be simple, and I’ve obviously done _something_ wrong. Stressed myself out, or ate the wrong thing, or—_god forbid_—forgot a dose of my meds. Nearly a year seizure-free and now look at me. God.

I moan a little, hauling myself up on my elbows. I need to get out of the hall before someone finds me. I’ve got to—I’ve got to—

My head spins, and I tilt it back, willing the world to come to a stop. My mouth tastes vile—my head aches. I feel like I need to throw up. I guess I’m staying here for a bit.

That’s when I find hands on me, gently easing me upright until I’m sitting straight. The light is on, now, and someone is leaning over me. “Easy,” says a voice, and it takes me a moment to identify it as Lockwood. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Seizure,” I slur, my mouth slow and heavy. “Just a… just a seizure.”

“Do I need to call an ambulance?”

I shake my head. The motion is a little too much, a little too soon, and for a moment the world fractures into pieces around me. My mouth fills with sour spit and I lean over, my stomach heaving. I lose myself for a moment.

“You’re okay, Percy. You’re okay,” Lockwood is saying when I come back. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

I’m not okay. I’m trembling harder, now, my entire body stiff. I have a lump in my throat and tears pressing up behind my eyes and there’s vomit on the floor and I’m so shaky I can barely sit up straight and everything is, frankly, awful. But Lockwood is kind, kinder than I’ve come to expect of people after they’ve learned that I have seizures, and with his help I make it back to my room and into bed with no more major incidents.

“Are you okay? Will you be okay if I go make you some tea?” Lockwood asks, and that’s it—I break.

“I th-thought I was getting _better_,” I say, folding over my knees with my face in my hands. My shoulders—already shaking from the strain of the seizure—start to quake.

“What do you mean?” Lockwood asks. After a moment he sits on the bed beside me, his hand hovering over my shoulder. He’s not great at comforting people, but he’s sincere about listening and that means just as much if not more than physical comfort.

So I tell him. I spill the secret. All about the epilepsy, and the surgery, and how I won’t be able to get out of it. I finish by saying that he can’t, under any circumstances, tell Monty.

“Percy…” he says. He looks younger without his glasses—he isn’t all that much older than us, hasn’t even hit his thirties yet. For all that he’s done, all that he’s experienced, he’s still young.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Seizures barely cross the Link and he can’t, he can’t know. Please.”

I can tell by his face that he’s starting to regret ever getting involved with us as the catalog of secrets grows, but he agrees. He sighs, going to fetch me a cup of tea. I sip on it slowly as he cleans up the hallway, my guilt—is it about the vomit or about Monty?—eating away at my insides. Still, there’s nothing I can do. I get through half the mug before I’m so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open, and then I sleep like the dead.

The next day I’m up just before Monty, heading for the shower. I’ve taken a dose of numbing meds so that the soreness is under control—it won’t cross the Bond unless something else happens. I can’t help the fact that I’m still shaky, still pale and out of it, but maybe that’ll help me today. I need to see a doctor, after all.

Until Lockwood gets a look at me and sends me straight back to bed, that is. “He’s not going out today,” he says to Monty, and that’s that. I hunker down in my blankets, looking up at Monty through my hair. _I__’m sorry_, I want to say. I was careless, I made a mistake. I caused a seizure and now you’re all paying for it.

Instead, it’s him, smiling down at me and rubbing a quick hand up and down my shoulder, who says, “Hey, that’s okay. I’ll pick up the slack for you today, eh? Bring you a souvenir.”

I don’t know what he has in mind, how he plans to pass as male in a prison of all places, but I have no choice but to let him go.

I spend all day worrying. At lunch, I contemplate taking another dose of numbing meds. If I don't Monty may start to feel the aches from the seizure, but if I do I won’t be able to feel him if he gets hurt. I think long and hard about what to do, what’s right in a situation like this, until eventually, I put the pills back in their container. 

It’s probably a good thing I do, because not an hour later I feel the sharp crack of a hand across his face.

I’m out of bed before I know what’s happened, stumbling for the door. It’s instinctual, the need to get to my Pain Pal. I’m nearly out the front door before I realize that if he’s gotten into the prison I’ll never be able to reach him. My legs wobble and I sink down in front of it, fishing out my phone. I text the group chat between us and the Robles siblings, biting my lip. 

I expect to have to wait for an answer, but Helena is quick with a response.

_It was a police officer. Monty said something that set him off._

God_damn_it, Monty.

I haul myself to the couch, waiting for any more fun treats from the French police, but nothing happens. An hour goes past, and then two, and then Monty texts me himself saying he’s out, he’s okay, and they’re heading back.

I’ll decide for myself if he’s actually okay when he gets to the apartment. I wait, my stomach tied in knots, until I hear the key in the door. He opens it with a smile already on his face.

“I’m back, darling!” he calls, striding in. I reach instantly for his face, standing on shaky doe legs to reach him faster—the growing bruise is dark but it’s not too serious. He wriggles his eyebrows. Then he pulls me into his room to tell me what happened.

“Bloody morons, the police here are,” he says, sinking down onto his bed and pulling me down beside him. “I got asked the genitals question like five times, three of them in butchered English. They had no idea what to do with me at first.”

“So how did you get in?” I ask.

“Well I’m glad you asked! The law apparently says that if your driver’s license says you’re male, you legally have to go to the male side of the prison. And because my dear old daddy got my gender marker changed in the states, guess what?”

I hum. He then tells me about meeting Dr. Robles, about convincing him to talk, and about the indecencies that the French government is hiding. The gist of the story is that the French police gave Dr. Robles the option of working for the prison or being tried for the crime of cooking illicit pharmaceutical substances, and he chose to work for them. He isn’t allowed out of the prison unless he’s escorted by prison guards, which is technically super illegal, hence why the government claimed he was dead.

It gets better.

He and Helena are Pain Pals, just like Monty and I, and apparently in order to keep up the fiction that he’s dead the prison forces him to take high amounts of Bond suppressants, similar to the numbing agents I take after seizures. He’s become addicted to the stuff, and they threaten to take it away from him if he disobeys any order. 

Also highly illegal, all highly evil. 

Helena, understandably, is furious. I would be, too. To lose a Bond is bad enough, but to then think you're the one in a million Soulmate who survived the death of Pain Pal, all because some government got shifty and tried to cover up their sins? I can't imagine.

Monty shakes his head. He’s got a distant look in his eyes now, absorbed by whatever memory of Mateu Robles he now has. “He told me that growing up, he didn’t think he had a Pain Bond," he says, tilting his head. "Then his infant daughter was born. When she was really little she had a hard time sleeping alone, so she’d pinch her finger and he’d pinch his as well to let her know he was still there. And now… they can’t feel each other at all. How fucked up is that, huh?”

The more Monty talks the more I realize that something is… off. I’m not sure what it is—he’s as flippant as ever, his smile undeterred, but I notice him swallowing a lot and follow his eyes to the table. And the bottle on top of it. And the vodka inside it.

I imagine feeling nothing, not pain nor pleasure, just nothing. An absence. A void. And suddenly I realize what it is that I’m missing, what I’ve _been_ missing: the fact that home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling, and it begins and ends with Monty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me a little bit, haha. I think it's the longest one yet.


	18. The High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty starts to spiral.

The rest of our semester goes swimmingly. We have no idea what’s waiting for us pending our return from France, but it’s fine because we all have things to do. Me and Monty work on keeping a low profile and finishing our classes, and Helena and Dante work on finding a detective and a lawyer for their father, and it’s fine.

The first sign that something is not fine comes when we step off the jet bridge at the airport after our return flight lands on US soil. I spot it first—there’s a camera aimed in our direction. Not unusual in itself, but still not exactly a good omen. I hurry to stand between Monty and the offending paparazzi, but there’s a _click,_ and then a flash of light, and then, as if the sky has opened and the rain is flooding down upon us, come a dozen more in quick succession. 

“Vultures,” I mutter, smiling my way through them. Lockwood is pushed aside, frowning as the paparazzi get between him and us. He calls a quick _goodbye, see you in January_ before he’s swallowed by the crowd. Monty has already linked his arm with me so we won’t get separated, and he flashes his dimples, the last of the bruise on his jaw artfully covered in make-up. It’s started to smudge a little from the long plane ride.

In seconds the first recorder pops up, a curt man starting to question us. He’s drowned out as two others do the same, recording devices bobbing at our sides as they hurry to keep up with Monty’s pace. We don’t have to worry about luggage—we’re having it delivered for us—so we just have to put up with this until we get to the car waiting outside.

Or we would, if Monty didn’t pause for one of them. “What was that?” he asks.

“There were rumors that you were seen at an address on _Rue Durantin_ during your time abroad. Did you get a tattoo while you were there?” the woman asks, a small and vicious smile on her face about the fact that she got Monty to stop.

Monty laughs. “Oh, you mean this?” he asks, slipping his flannel shirt off his shoulder to show off the tattoo on his arm. 

The cameras all start snapping, and I nearly slap myself in the face. I’m as relieved as he is that all the dirt they have is the tattoo and they don’t seem to have gotten wind of the arrest, but honestly, could he _not_ give them something to buzz over? 

“Is there anything else you’d like to show us? The response Mark, perhaps?” the lady asks after the impromptu photoshoot, focusing her eyes on me. 

I tense. “Uh—” I start, only for Monty to wave them off. 

“We’re tired,” he says, hiking his backpack up a little and tilting his head meaningfully toward the exit. “You’ve already got a scoop, so how about you let us through? We’ll catch you on the flip side, yeah?”

And then he’s off, dragging me through the crowd and to the car. The paparazzi buzz at our backs, but no one else approaches, and then we’re in and the windows are up and I can breathe again.

I think about the tattoo on our way home. It’s smart, what he’s done. In one sense, anyway. Give the paparazzi something to swoon over and they’ll milk it until there’s nothing left. If one story has to get out in the open, it’s better that it’s the tattoo and not the arrest.

Any appearance in the papers, on the other hand, is automatically cause for concern. Henri the Senior won’t care that it was only a tattoo—he’s still going to be pissed for the sake of being pissed. It likely wouldn’t matter to him which story broke—either way his son is an embarrassment to the family, and will need to be punished.

I settle further back into my seat and hope that Monty can keep his head down. Just for a little while, just until his father forgets why he’s mad. Just until we can go back to school in the spring. That’s all I want out of this life—a little peace and quiet.

We get home just after five, and have to wait an hour for the first local news show to come on. It’s a simple enough story. The wayward son of the governor, up to his usual shenanigans. The pictures are playful—Monty is smiling in every single one. I bite my lip and wait for Monty’s phone to go off with the telltale Mr. Grinch ringtone.

Only… it never happens. Monty gets a call from his sister, letting him know that he’s an idiot, and one from his mother, asking just why he insists on acting out, but no Mr. Grinch. Henri the Senior doesn’t come home, and the phone never rings, and we’re left waiting and waiting and waiting all the way up until the week before Christmas.

That’s when the arrest story breaks.

It happens all at once. There’s radio silence one day, and an explosion the next. International scandal, the son of a US governor involved in exposing a human rights violation in France that the conspiracy nuts have connected Henri the Senior to via a game of connect the dots… and in the midst of it all, a single text from Helena Robles, saying _thank you_.

“Henri Montague had no right to revoke Dr. Robles visa, I said it then and I’m saying it now,” says a rail-thin talk show guest on the third night. Monty and I are sitting side by side on Mrs. Montague’s antique sofa, our elbows just barely brushing. Felicity sits in an armchair across from us, pretending to read. I’m eating, but Monty is just picking at his food. His appetite has gone out the window in the past few days—he’s nervous, though you probably wouldn’t be able to tell unless you just happened to be me. He hasn’t been quite right since the prison.

“Now, hold on—” says another guest, his face red, but the first man talks over him.

“Dr. Robles did nothing wrong while on American soil. She obeyed the laws of the land and the restraints put on her by her visa. Debt is _not a crime_.”

“She wasn’t working!” the red-faced man blusters. “She applied for a work visa, and was not working! That is acceptable grounds to revoke a work visa—”

“Is an American not allowed to have sick days? Is an American not allowed to take time off from work? If all it takes to get deported is to get sick then there is something very wrong with the system—”

They go back and forth for a while, and then they shake hands and step down and two different people go back and forth for a while, and then Monty is sighing a heavy sigh beside me. “This is dry as fuck,” he says, going to turn off the TV. 

I give a vague hum of agreement. We sit in silence for a while, Monty prodding at a plate full of steak tips and onions, the only sound the rustle of Felicity’s book. We don’t need to say anything. We all know that this is bad attention for the governor. That Henri the Senior is exquisitely pissed. That his rage is channeled through his fists more often than not.

But we also know that he needs to be careful right now. Any misstep, any controversy, could turn his constituents against him. He’s campaigning for his next term right now—Monty may well be saved a beating by the fact that his father can’t afford the trouble.

Still, the stress starts to take its toll. The sense of unease never quite lifts, not while we’re at the Montague House and not when we manage to escape back to school for our spring semester. Monty starts drinking again, all the progress we made abroad wiped off the board just like that. We’re back in the states and the pressure is back. I mourn for the ease of Paris, for the way that Monty did so much better when he was an ocean away from his family.

It’s no use. By the time our senior year creeps around, Monty is doing everything he can to give himself cirrhosis of the liver. It’s the start of a spiral, spinning and spinning out of control, the nose of his plane angled down toward the hard, unforgiving ground. He’s convinced Helena to come to the US now that her father is safe and sound, and when Helena comes the drugs come and everything goes from bad to worse.

I don’t know where she gets them. I’m naive about that sort of thing, with explicit plans to stay that way. The drugs aren’t worth it to me. But to Monty…

To Monty, the high is worth it all.

He manages to hide them from Lockwood for a lot longer than I think he’ll be able to. He’s good at acting, good at smiling. Those dimples never seem to falter. The way he can still pretend to be a functional person while completely falling apart astounds me. I think about the fact that time is growing short for both of us and feel the slow pull of panic rising like the tide through my ribs. I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to help myself. I don’t know anything. I don’t know.

Have I mentioned yet how hard it is, loving Henry ‘Monty’ Montague? I feel as if that’ll go on my headstone. ‘_Here lies Percy Newton, who died of loving the hardest man on Earth to love_.’ It just fits, you know?

“_Percy_,” Felicity says, one day, when I’m sitting on the couch in our apartment staring at the homework I haven’t been able to focus on for hours now. She’s on speakerphone, her voice staticky through the unsteady connection. She and Sim are in Stuttgart, meeting up with an old friend of hers, Johanna. 

I hum. 

“_I think__… I think Monty is in trouble_,” she says. 

I blink, trying to clear my head of the Bond-high I currently have. “Yeah?” I say, playing dumb. “Why is this?”

“_Oh, come on, Percy. You__’re a smart guy. You know exactly what I’m talking about_.”

A sigh curls off my tongue, and I sink into the cushions, giving up on my pretense. “I’m doing my best,” I say. Because I am. I’ve tried talking to him, I’ve tried talking to Helena, hell I’ve even tried talking to Scipio. Monty has not been budged. I’ve considered just straight up asking him to stop, to give him an ultimatum—I’m his Pain Pal, this affects me, too—but at this point, I’m starting to doubt he can.

It’s just… we’re back to that old psychological assessment that I made once upon a time. The one about ugly things. Monty has just collected so _many_ of them at this point in his life that it’s a constant uphill battle to keep ahead of them. If he needs to be almost constantly high to do it, well…

I sigh again, folding all my limbs in and pressing my face to the couch cushion beneath me. “Feli… can I ask you something?”

“_You just did_,” she snarks, but I’ve spent a lifetime around Montagues—she sounds nervous.

I breathe slowly, the high swirling through each of the whorls of my brain. I can feel it on my tongue, in my guts, to my fingertips. I’m worried, but I’m also entrenched. I just barely manage to muster up enough seriousness from amid the bliss to ask, “It’s just… do you think we’ll ever be free?”

She’s silent for a long moment. I wait. She’s studying people, how they work and what makes them tick, so I figure if anyone has an answer it’ll be her. If she says no… well. I guess… I don’t know. I’ll run on my own, maybe. I have enough cash to last me a while—it’ll last longer without two people, anyway. And then, once I’ve established myself… I can come back for him. I’ll come back and sweep him off his feet and bridal-carry him away from this life. I’ll save myself first, and then I’ll _come back_.

I don’t realize I’m crying until the tears blur my vision. Felicity hasn’t even answered and I realize that it won’t work. I’m Bound to him—I’m stuck just as fast as he is. My surgery is looming and I can’t escape it. I can’t escape anything. Not alone. Not without him.

“_Percy_…” she says, and I laugh. 

“No, don’t answer,” I say. “What will come will come, que sera sera or whatever. I just thought… I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d be able to tell me the way out but that’s dumb of me to ask.”

“_It__’s not dumb_,” she argues, but it doesn’t sound like she really means it. “_I really wish I could give you the answers. But honestly__… I don’t know. Addiction isn’t clearcut, and neither is abuse. They rewire your brain and change the chemistry in your body. I wish I could tell you what to expect, but I… I don’t know_?”

Her voice waivers on those last words and I feel for her. She’s admitted to me before that she got interested in medicine because she wanted to understand things, to understand herself, so the idea that there are things out there she may never understand must be so, so hard.

So I cry. I cry for her, and for Monty, and for me. I cry until I slip into sleep, and I wake up to the sound of the door, Monty coming in from a late night at Helena’s place. He stubs his toe on the hallway wall and I twitch, but he doesn’t notice me. He walks right on by.

I spend the rest of the night in my room, counting out cash by the light of my phone. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred… how much does a life cost? How much does freedom? Does Scipio know? Could he tell me?

Could I do it? Could I get out? Leave all this behind? Even with the idea of Monty by my side, it feels daunting. I’m afraid that I’d get most of the way there and then falter, afraid that I’d get close enough to touch the stars only to be pulled back by the relentless tug of gravity. I’m spiraling, too, and my descent has a deadline—one week after graduation and I’m done for. That’ll be it. I may still be alive after that, but my life will be intrinsically different, my brain and my illness and maybe even my personality permanently altered by the course of a scalpel.

I wonder, offhand, if Felicity ever thinks about being on this side of the anesthesia. She’s still unsure if she wants to practice surgery, still hasn’t decided on a focus, but maybe it’s in her future. There’s no doubt that she’s smart enough. Will she have to perform surgeries on unwilling participants? Children too young to understand what’s going on, people forced by someone else’s hand?

I look at the stack of bills in my lap, and… I sigh. I shuffle them, fold them, band them together. Hide them in the little air pocket under the lining of my violin case. My time is growing short, but still… I can hope.

I can hope.


	19. The Overdose

Mornings, I find, are the best time for me to do things. Monty’s schedule is afternoon-heavy, most of his classes falling after noon, so while he sleeps late I have time to get things done. 

I’ve gotten into the habit of spending time with Lockwood, in the mornings. Lockwood, and occasionally Scipio, or Ebrahim and Georgie. They’ve become as much a fixture of our little piece of the world as Monty or I. The former robbers are still struggling to make ends meet week after week but they refuse to take any more ‘charity’ from me and Monty, and I think I understand.

Some days I talk. Some days I don’t. I feel, some days, like I’ve been losing Monty. 

It’s been slow, like the the drift of the continents. Over the course of months, years… maybe longer, maybe over the course of half a lifetime… he’s changed. Once upon a time he was just Monty, playful and strong-willed to the exclusion of all else. Now it’s like he’s turned into someone I recognize like a parody of my best friend. It’s selfish, but I wonder who, exactly, it is that I’ve fallen in love with. Him, or a caricature of who he once was? Do I love Monty for who he is or who he used to be? Do I care for him or am I obligated to him? What even is the difference these days? 

It’s a little dramatic to think like that, as Scipio often has to tell me, but I can’t help it. Maybe Monty isn’t really himself anymore, but… maybe he is. Maybe this is who he is, now. This person who drinks even when he knows he shouldn’t, and fucks even when he doesn’t seem to want to, and takes beatings only to turn around and play them off as something that happens to someone else. It is, after all, a little ridiculous to think he’s changed so much that he isn’t still himself. 

When I start to wander down that path, I usually turn myself around again when I remember his hand around my wrist leading me along, the way he always manages to make me feel better when I’m ‘sick’ in bed, the soft smiles that he has just for me, and I think _it can__’t be that bad_. He’s still Monty, even if the shape of him has grown a few sharp edges in the years I’ve known him. No one stays a child, round and soft, forever. He’s just grown up, is all. We all have, him and me and Felicity. We’re all adults now. 

I’m thinking about this the day the end begins. It just crosses my mind every once in a while—what’s changed and what hasn’t, what it all means. I’ve been very introspective as of late, very thoughtful. One thing that has never crossed my mind, however, is what it would feel like to really lose him. 

Don’t get me wrong, the thought that he might kill himself going the way he’s going has been a consistent fear for a while now. But I’ve never actually caught a glimpse of life without him. Not really. Not until today. Today, the day that the final domino knocked over by the very first one set down by Monty once upon a time falls. 

The day starts just as any other day. I hang with Scipio and Lockwood in the morning. Go to my classes, go grocery shopping, go to orchestra practice. I’m hanging around with the rest of the orchestra dorks after we wrap up when I get the usual text, the one that says _you home yet? want to party h-girl has some new stuff_, and I sigh a little to myself. It’s not every evening that he does this, but it’s close enough to every evening to irk me a bit. Some days I’d really rather hang with my orchestra friends, playing and joking late into the night. I don’t want to cut the jam session short early so that I’m not Bond-high while I’m out and about. But Monty does what Monty wants, and it seems as if I’m along for the ride. I love him too much to say no.

At least he’s kind enough to give me a heads up.

I text back that I’m_ on my way, go ahead_, pack up my violin, and go to catch a bus. I’m getting off at the stop a few blocks down from our apartment when I start to feel it—a floaty feeling in my limbs, making me feel light and slow and sweet. I rarely do drugs myself but I will admit that a second-hand high isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Except… something is off. It’s coming on faster than I’m used to, the light-headedness growing stronger and stronger by the second. I’ve been this high before but not through the Bond—the Bond is usually a mellower high, a fraction of the high Monty gets. He never gets high enough to put me completely out of commission. This time, however…

I stumble, barely keeping hold of my violin case. Whoo. Dizzy. I have… I’ve got to sit down. I’m close to home but walking that final block seems like a daunting task just now. I lean over my knees, bracing my elbows on them and breathing deeply, waiting for the intensity to go down so I can keep going.

It doesn’t. It just keeps growing and growing, numbness seeping through my bones like vines. It’s not unpleasant, really… it’s just… a lot, all at once? So much… all at once…

I don’t know how long I’m sitting there before I realize that it isn’t helping, that it’s just getting worse. It’s some span of time between a few seconds and a few hours, and then someone is in front of me, shaking my shoulder. 

I can hardly feel it. I blink upwards and… oh, hello, Scipio. What is he doing here?

“Lockwood was getting worried. You okay?” he’s asking. I nod—I’m just a little, a little out of it. I’ve just got to get home and I’ll be okay.

He’s got a sharp look in his eyes as he takes me in, up and down. “I don’t think you’re okay,” he says. Which, rude. I’m fine. Totally, completely fine. I feel like I’m in the clouds.

I don’t realize I’m listing to one side until Scipio is catching me, hauling me back upright. “You’re slurring,” he informs me, and my eyes cross trying to see my tongue, as if I can see the words failing to cross it. “Come on, I’ll help you home.”

I agree, and in moments my arm is draped across Scipio’s shoulders. He does most of the work as we go, holding nearly all of my weight. I find it very funny that my feet keep slipping out from under me but he doesn’t laugh, instead coaching me through every step like a spoilsport. He’s got my violin case slung across his back and I lean into it, nuzzling my nose against the hard plastic. There’s cash hidden right there, right under my nose. Maybe I’ll buy a plane. Wouldn’t that be fun? Yeah. It would. The world is fluffy and funny and I’m feeling fine.

By the time we reach the apartment, I’m starting to feel a little less fine. My head is spinning, the lightness dizzying, giddiness slipping away. I feel a little nauseated at the way the world won’t stay still. It’s intense, too intense—I can’t even imagine what Monty is feeling. The last time I felt anything this intense was when he was concussed. Maybe not even then.

Monty. _Monty_. I whine in the back of my throat, clawing at Scipio’s side. My tongue is all tied up but after a bit of pantomiming I think I get the point across because he sets me down beside Lockwood on our little couch and starts to help me get my phone out of my pocket. 

It takes too long. I whine again, impatient, and turn the phone on. The screen is a halo of light that I can’t parse, and I squint angrily at it for a moment. Damn technology… just give me Monty! 

I manage to type in my password somehow, not really sure how that happens, and then Scipio is taking the device from my hands and dialing up Monty for me. 

Then we wait… and we wait… and we wait… as the phone rings… and rings… and _rings_…

Until all of a sudden the ringing comes to a stop. Someone answers Monty’s phone, all in a panic. It’s not Monty, and I pout. It takes me a moment before I realize it’s actually Helena, freaked out and babbling.

“—_Percy thank god oh Lord I don__’t know what to do he’s—no, no Monty stay awake stay _awake—”

I gasp as I feel a smack land on my cheek. My cheek? No. Not my cheek. _Monty__’s_ cheek. It’s strong, solid—no nonsense. My head spins worse. I lean over, gasping. It hurts, in a distant way—but it also clears the fog from my mind. Just a little, just enough to realize what’s going on.

It’s an overdose. Monty tried something new and took too much and now he’s unconscious and I’m following close behind. 

This is bad. _Really_ bad. When people say that Soulbonds can be dangerous, this is _exactly_ what they mean. 

“Helena,” I growl, forcing my tongue to work. “Call 911.”

“_I can__’t_,” she sobs. “_If I call 911 the cops will come and they__’ll figure out I got it from my dad and he just got out of jail, he can’t go back Percy he _can’t—”

My head is pounding from the effort of staying conscious. “Helena! This is about Monty—Monty needs help! CALL 911!”

“_I can__’t I can’t I _can’t—”

“Helena—”

“_Oooh no, Monty, pleeease stay awake, stay awake, you can__’t sleep now_—”

Another smack, and this one has me moaning aloud. I’m listing again but Scipio is there on one side and Lockwood the other, keeping me upright. I listen as Helena cries and tells Monty to stay awake and as I do a sense of dread starts to build in my chest. 

Because this is it. If I don’t do something Monty is going to slip through my fingers, and I can’t—I _can__’t_. Live my life without Henry ‘Monty’ Montague. I won’t, I refuse. The day he dies is the day I sign my own death certificate.

“…Call 911,” I say for the last time. Helena refuses, again, still, but I’m not talking to her anymore. I lock eyes with Lockwood for a moment, making sure he understands. He already has his phone in hand. Then I take Scipio by the arm and start hauling myself to my feet.

“What are you doing?” Scipio demands, grabbing me by the elbow before I trip over my own knees.

“Going to Monty,” I say, and I am more determined in that moment than I’ve ever been, for any reason. If he doesn’t help me I’ll do it on my own. I will _crawl_ to my Soulmate if I have to.

Scipio stares at me for a long moment, and I genuinely think he’s going to tell me that I need to stay put. He’ll hold me down if he thinks this is the best thing for me. After a long moment, however, he solemnly nods his head and then we’re off, me leaning against him once more.

I don’t know how we get there. It must take some time, but the trip feels like it takes all of four seconds. Like I blink once, twice, and then we’re there. We have no plan, but it turns out we don’t need one. One look exchanged between the two of us and then Scipio all but kicks down the door. I barge in, my numb limbs leading me forward. 

Helena is on the futon in the middle of the living room, and, coincidentally, so is Monty. He’s lying flat on his back, his tattooed arm flopped over the side, and she’s on top of him straddling his waist. For a sick moment I think she’s trying to strangle him, but then I realize that she’s shaking his shoulders, still trying to wake him up. His phone is lying abandoned on the floor, drug paraphernalia scattered on the table beside them.

I’m not sure where the strength comes from—adrenaline, maybe—but all it takes is one swing of my fist and Helena is down for the count, lying dazed on the floor. I push past her and crouch next to the futon, reaching for Monty’s face.

He’s awake, barely. His eyes are roaming, eyelids almost closed but not quite, and he’s making a noise like a whimper in the very back of his throat. His breathing is slow, too slow—I grasp for his arm, lifting his dead weight to turn him onto his side.

It’s just in time. He hitches and suddenly a torrent of vomit is coming from his mouth, splashing onto the floor beside me. He groans, eyes rolling back, and vomits again. 

“Stay awake,” I say, fear sharpening the words. “Stay awake, stay awake, stay _awake_.” I rub his back, up and down and up and down, and he’s shaking under my hand, and his face is clammy and his skin wet with sweat and I don’t know how long the ambulance is going to take I just hope and hope and hope that he’s going to make it because I can’t imagine living without him, oh god oh god what if this is it what if this is our last day on this earth what if—

I moan, my entire body reeling. My insistence that he stay awake starts to morph, becoming a plea for him to say alive, stay alive, stay _alive_. Stay alive, Monty, because I don’t know how to live without you. I don’t know how to _survive alone_.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t smile that smile I love, doesn’t lift his head to meet my eyes, doesn’t stir as I shake apart beside him. My Pain Pal, my other half, my Fated, my one and only love is as still as death.

In the distance, I hear the crooning call of sirens approaching and I hope there’s still time.


	20. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A PLAYLIST FOR MONTY!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WVqFUthUkHRobWsZJ3xMm) It only has like five songs right now (the Percy playlist has like 80) but it's started and that's what matters!

The ride to the hospital is a tense one, though surprisingly not the tensest ambulance ride I’ve ever been on. The ambulance itself is a double-bed, designed for Soulmates in distress, and I’m grateful to Lockwood for getting that point across, otherwise I’d be forced to leave Monty’s side. As it is I barely allow the paramedic to take my vitals as her partner doses Monty with some kind of anti-opioid—naloxone, she said?—and tests him for consciousness. 

His hand, which I’ve yet to let go, is cold in mine. It doesn’t so much as twitch.

I want to panic. I don’t have _time_ to panic. In a moment we’re there, being unloaded amid a flurry of hospital staff, doctors and nurses and everything else, who take us into the ER and to two side-by-side beds. They move Monty first, forcing me to let go—and then they’re hauling me over next to him, swift and efficient. I let them do what they need to do, bite my tongue against the snappish ‘_I can walk by myself_’ that wants to exit my mouth. It’s not about me right now. For once in my epileptic life, it’s not about me.

I’m not sure how, but I manage to stay awake until they take him to the ICU. The adrenaline helps, I’m sure, but it can only carry me so far before my head starts spinning and I start nodding off where I sit. I want to stay awake, to stay fully conscious so that I hear the news first, but my body has other ideas.

I wake some indeterminate amount of time later, in a room all my own. Scipio and Lockwood are sitting side by side, Lockwood’s head on Scipio’s shoulder, both of them fast asleep. Helena is also here, curled up in her own chair halfway across the room, and I blink my gummy eyes, rubbing at them. 

She doesn’t disappear. Really here, then. I can’t tell if she’s awake—if she is she’s doing a damn good job of pretending otherwise. I think, for a moment, that I should feel bad for the black eye I’ve given her. I don’t.

I sit up slowly. My head hurts and I’m not sure if it’s my pain or—

Monty.

I stumble upright, forcing my feet under me all at once. I’m alive, so he must be alive, but other than that I don’t have a grasp on anything. Our Bond is indistinct, hazy—I’m not sure what’s mine and what’s his, if anything is coming through at all. 

I need to find out.

In trying to step away from the bed I realize that I’m attached to a heart monitor and pulse ox. sensor—I tug the wires off and ignore the way the machines start to scream at me. It’s only a heart monitor, it’s not like I’m tearing out an IV. The nurses will forgive me.

Speaking of. The first one I corner looks like she’s barely out of nursing school, her face round and young. “Henry Montague,” I say, without preamble. “I came in with him—Pain Pal—and I—he—last time I saw him he was in the ICU.”

The fact that she not only makes sense of my stammering but also manages to pull up a digital chart with the correct information is a miracle. She hums. “Percy Newton?” she asks. 

“That’s me,” I breathe.

“Okay. It looks like… he’s still in the ICU. That’s all I can tell you.”

I nearly groan aloud. God, I hate hospitals. There are so many little hoops and rings that you have to jump through to get the most basic information, and it kills me every time. 

She doesn’t notice. “It seems as if you’ve been administered a Bond suppressant. You probably shouldn’t be out of bed, hon. I’m gonna send you back to your room and get the doctor to come and fill you in, okay?”

A Bond suppressant? I wrack my brain for everything I know about them. It’s not much. Just that they’re used to ease the death of a Pain Pal. They block the pain of death and the subsequent sympathetic response in the Bond receiver. Which could mean…

“Oh my god, he’s _dying_?”

The nurse squeaks, raising her hands in front of her. “No! No, no, no, sweetheart, _no_. Someone would have been waiting for you to wake up if it were that serious. Oh, no, I’m not supposed to—forget I said that, okay? Gosh, but I’m sorry—here, let me walk you back to your room, huh?”

I let her because my heart is beating so fast that I feel kind of faint all of a sudden. 

“Here,” the nurse says when we’ve arrived. She reconnects all the leads of the heart monitor and then draws the sheet of the hospital bed up to my chest. “I’ve got to get back to work, but you hit that button there if you need anything. I’ll send the doctor in, okay?”

I nod, taking deep, slow breaths.

The doctor comes half an hour later, when I’m prodding at some rubbery eggs from the breakfast cart that came through. I really don’t feel like eating but I need to take my meds. 

I perk up the moment I hear the knock on the door, watching as the doctor lets himself in. Scipio and Lockwood have since woken up, Lockwood red in the face and apologizing for the impropriety of falling asleep on Scipio’s shoulder, but Helena is still in the exact same position she was when I woke. There’s no way she isn’t faking it.

“All right,” the doctor says, pulling up a chair so he can sit by my side. “Soulmate, friends… I have good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first,” I say without preamble. Always go with the bad news first. It gives you something to look forward to. And boy do we need it.

The doctor nods. “The bad news is that we had to intubate Mr. Montague overnight. His respiratory system was depressed and he was at risk of arrhythmias so we had a machine help him breathe for a few hours to ease the strain.”

My face twists at the name ‘Mr. Montague’, but I manage to move past it and focus, breathing out. That’s not the worst news we could receive. “Okay. Now the good news.”

That gets me a smile. “The good news is that he began to fight the tube early in the AM. We took it out and took him for a CT and an EKG. We haven’t detected any anomalies.”

I breathe in. It’s at times like these that I’m really glad I speak hospital lingo. I nod, taking in all the words and laying them down before me. He’s breathing on his own, his brain looks okay, and his heart is beating strong and steady. Thank god. 

“How long will he be here?” I ask. Gotta cover all my bases.

“We can’t let your boy out of the hospital just yet,” the doctor says, and I breathe out. “The side effects of an overdose like this are not fun, and he’s not quite conscious yet. We’re going to watch his heart and lungs for a few days, and once he’s fully awake we’ll do some cognitive testing to make double sure that everything is okay. If everything goes well, I expect he’ll be walking out of here by Tuesday.”

So not great, and not terrible. About what I expected, honestly. I suck in another breath, let it out, pull another in, and then I ask the most important question of all—“When can I go see him?”

“_You_ are on extra-strength suppressants,” the doctor says. “You may not feel much different than usual, but your body is working overtime trying to connect with a Bond it can’t find. You’re going to feel tired and lethargic, and with your history of—”

My eyes widen, and I shake my head subtly. He changes course. “With your history, I’m afraid that we can’t let you out of bed in good conscience. A nurse can come collect you in a wheelchair, but we’re tight-staffed today and it may be a few hours.”

I stare him down for a long moment, willing him to budge. He doesn’t. Finally, I deflate, running a hand through my messy curls. “Fine,” I say. He nods, we shake on it, and then it’s me and our friends alone in a room.

Mostly. Mostly friends. I glance over at Helena before shifting my gaze away again. I can’t focus on her. I have other things to worry about.

“Did anyone call Felicity?” I ask the room at large. No one pipes up. 

My face falls. God. Okay. It’s been over twelve hours and Felicity doesn’t know that her brother is in the hospital. The hospital, I’m sure, called Monty’s parents already, but there’s no guarantee that the two of them passed the message along. They would likely rather this stay quiet and contained than let their daughter know a family emergency is in the works.

…Which means it’s up to me to break the news. Once again.

My phone is dead, so I borrow Lockwood’s. While I’m focused on dialing the number, Helena manages to slip out of the room. I raise my head at the sound of the door closing and Scipio looks at me, silently asking if he needs to go after her, but I shake my head. Whatever Helena is, she isn’t dangerous. She doesn’t actively wish Monty harm. What happened was a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake that I will never forget, but a mistake nonetheless.

It takes Felicity six rings to answer, and when she does she starts speaking so fast I almost can’t understand her. “_Hello? Are you from St. Mark__’s hospital? I didn’t think anyone would get back to me so quickly about the student dissections_—”

“Felicity, it’s me,” I say, cutting her off. I’m starting to feel that lethargy—it’s nothing like the Bond-high that brought us here, and yet everything like it, ever-present and cloying. I want to shake it off, the unease prickling in my chest.

“_Oh. Percy. Whose __phone are you calling from_?”

“Lockwood’s. Look, Feli, I… I have some news.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. So quiet, in fact, that I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. Then she clicks her tongue. “_How fast do I need to get there_?” she asks.

“I haven’t even told you what the news is,” I say.

“_Cut the crap, Percy. Monty got himself in trouble and now I need to go kick his ass. So tell me, how fast do I need to get there? By tomorrow? By tonight? As soon as humanly possible_?”

I curl up, drawing my knees toward my chest. “Um, by tomorrow is fine. But maybe… maybe by tonight if you can. He’s not awake yet, but I think he’d feel better if he woke up and you were here.”

She huffs, says something that sounds like _damnit, Monty_, and then I hear the sound of footsteps.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“_I was in a lecture. I__’m going back to the dorms to pack some underwear and then I’m going to the airport_.” She clears her throat, then, her voice small as she says, “_You__’re watching out for him, right? I don’t have to worry about you two dying on my way over_?”

I close my eyes. _I__’m alive_, I think, _so he must be alive_. We are Fated, we are Bound… and I am _alive_. I feel my heart beating in my chest and I can imagine its mirror, pulsing strong, somewhere just outside my reach.

I open my eyes. “We’ll be all right,” I say, and that’s that. I say my goodbyes and lower the phone with the certainty saturating my blood. 

It’ll take Felicity a few hours to arrive, so in the meantime, I occupy myself with going through the familiar nuisance of emailing all our teachers to let them know what’s up. Only one gives me trouble—I take a selfie with the heart monitor and email it over, taking a little too much glee in the act. So I’m frustrated, sue me—I just want to see my Pain Pal.

I see Felicity before I get to see Monty. She storms in with a suitcase in one hand and her phone in the other, in the middle of a rather heated conversation that I gather is with her mother.

“You had _no excuse_ to withhold that information from me,” she finishes up, her eyes darting to me. There is fire in them, full and blazing—I’m used to her spark but even I flinch away from a full-blown flame. She shucks off her coat and I catch a glimpse of the Mark on her arm—the seaglass green crown and cleaver now have a thin black outline, just like the response Mark on my shoulder. 

She shakes her head, then, and lowers her phone, ending the call. 

“God, I hate my parents sometimes,” she says. Then she focuses on me. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

“A wheelchair,” I say. My hands are starting to get shaky—the only thing stopping me from ignoring them and walking to Monty under my own power is the fear that pushing too hard right now will cause a seizure.

Felicity, thank god, has no problem bullying the nurses into submission. If it’s a wheelchair I need, it’s a wheelchair I’ll have.

He’s awake when the two of us get there, staring blankly down at his hands. I clear my throat and he flinches so hard that he nearly dislodges his IV.

“Oh,” he says, his eyes huge and staring at us. His hair is an absolute mess, his skin pale under a light blue hospital gown and his voice scratchy from the tube. “Hello. I thought you were—thought you were father.”

And then, right there in front of us, his eyes grow shiny and his face screws up and the tears start to fall for maybe the first time in years and—I can’t take it. He covers his mouth with his hands and I remember the last time I saw his face, how it was in a stillness reminiscent of death itself, and I _can__’t_. I can’t just _sit there_. The suppressants may have stopped his pain from reaching me but that doesn’t stop me from feeling it as if it’s my own. My heart palpitates to the rhythm of his stifled sobs.

I haul myself out of the chair, my legs unfolding like the legs of a newborn foal, and go to him, whispering every affirmation that comes to mind. _You__’re safe_ and _your father isn__’t here_ and _I swear to god, Monty, I__’d stand between you and the devil himself_. I crawl into the bed and let him shove his face into my stomach, trying and failing to smother the cries that are being forcefully wrenched from his lungs. It’s years and years worth of sobbing compacted into one monstrosity of an event, and I curl my body around him as if to shield him from everything that has ever caused him pain.

“I’ll just, ah… stay over here,” Felicity says over the sound of sobs, hovering near the door like the most awkward chaperone on the surface of the planet. She looks sincerely disturbed at the sight of her brother crying. I want to roll my eyes but manage to resist. Even I will admit that I’ve never seen someone cry quite this hard.

It goes on a while. I’m not sure how long—I start to doze a little if I’m being honest, my fingers trailing absently through his knotted hair—but eventually the sobs taper off to whimpers taper off to deep, slow breaths. Monty then raises his head. I startle all the way awake, looking down at him. 

God, but he looks awful. Still, I take in every single detail. Red eyes in a pale face, deep bruise-colored bags under them, lips chapped and hair tangled. But he’s smiling—something small and private, just for me. “Sorry about your, uh… gown,” he says. Then he buts his head into my shoulder. “I have to admit, though, I’m glad it’s not just me being a fashion disaster right now.”

And it’s just so… so… _Monty_. I can’t help it—I start snickering. I thought, for a moment, that I’d lost him, but here he is, right here, in my arms. I tug him close and the joy overflows and I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that we've surpassed 50k words! 
> 
> Also I did like three google searches to understand ODs so I hope I got some info correct, here.


	21. The Seizure

As expected, we spend a few days in the hospital. Monty is moved out of the ICU just after our visit, and spends the rest of his stay in my room, with me. We sleep a lot, dealing with the effects of the OD and the withdrawal for him and the suppressants for me. 

People come to visit. Scipio, Ebrahim, Georgie, Lockwood… Helena. 

She’s alone, when she arrives, looking small and nervous. She looks more like her brother without her unshakable confidence, without the edge of loftiness that usually colors her posture. Less like the woman who held a grudge against an entire country, and more like the child that would pinch her finger and wait for her father to pinch back.

“Hello,” she says carefully.

Monty’s chin jerks up from his poker hand. We’ve been betting on hospital food to pass the time. “Ah. Helena,” he says, in a tone that’s cold for him, setting aside his cards. It’s odd to hear—even when we’re fighting he’s passion and fire and heat incarnate. He doesn’t do cold—it reminds him too much of the cold fury he faces at home.

I’ve told him about what happened, how Helena refused to call an ambulance. I also told him that I punched her in the face, which made him laugh. It wasn’t funny at the time—literally anything but—but looking back I can kind of see it. Just like I can kind of see the position she thought she was in—the fear that her Pain Pal was on the line, that she’d made a mistake that would have lost her everything a second time. It turned out alright in the end, but still…

I cast a sideways glance at Monty, but for the first time in a while, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His poker mask is firmly in place. 

I keep my mouth shut. Monty… Monty needs to come to his own conclusions about this. It was his life on the line, too, after all. All I can do is sit by his side and support whatever decision he makes.

The room is silent. There’s no laughter, but neither is there screaming or crying or anything else. Helena stands ramrod straight at the side of the bed, the shiner around her eye stark against her olive skin. 

“I panicked,” she admits, finally, after a good few minutes.

“I know,” Monty says. There isn’t an inch of slack offered. He just continues to look at her, his face carved from stone.

“I didn’t want that to happen,” she says next.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Helena closes her eyes, her shoulders slumping. “I… I’m sorry,” she says finally. She sounds like she’s admitting a weakness, like she’s baring herself to us. I wonder if she’s ever apologized for anything in her life, and think no… probably not.

Monty tilts his head, looking at her. “What was that? I’m part-deaf, you need to speak up.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“A little louder?”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“A little—”

“_Monty_,” she says, her face twisting.

He grins. “Sorry. Had to. Look, no hard feelings, okay?”

She stares, her mouth open, before she nods slowly. “…I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, and Monty finger guns, and we’re about as back to normal as we can be.

The doctors encourage Monty to detox in the hospital but he politely declines. He’s cleared to go back home Tuesday afternoon, as promised. He’s allowed to go to school, too, so long as he doesn’t push himself—the doctors say that someone should watch over him for a few days yet, just to make sure he’s taking care of himself and getting enough fluids and nutrients. Lockwood and I volunteer, and then we’re on our way out, holding about a dozen pamphlets about addiction and detoxing and rehab. 

We pass a gaggle of paparazzi at the hospital entrance—Monty, too tired to deal with them, raises a middle finger until we’re past. The car is waiting for us and it’s time to go.

I think we’re going to talk about it, when we get home, just me and him. All about the drugs and the overdose and Helena and what to do now. Instead, we get inside just in time for Monty’s phone to go off. 

Mr. Grinch. There it is. I shake my head.

Felicity, who has set up camp in our living room, all her medical texts spread out on the table, greets me as Monty splits off to answer the call. “Father’s pissed,” she informs me, and I roll my eyes. Of course he is. His son is having what is debatably the worst time of his life, so of _course_ Henri the Senior would find a way to make it all about himself.

It takes Monty long enough to come back out that eventually, I go looking for him, pausing just outside his door. He’s not saying much—just _yes sir_ and _no sir_. The occasional _I__’m sorry_. Once he hangs up I knock on his door, letting myself in.

He’s got his face in his hands, a low groan vibrating through them. I ask him what’s up and he raises his head to give me one of those tired smiles that make me want to rip something apart. “Oh, just the usual. Threats of disownment if I can’t get my shit together.”

Yeah, sounds about right.

We don’t talk that night. I figure one talk, especially one with Mr. Montague, was more than enough for the day. Monty conks out around eight PM, and I settle in beside him, one of my music theory books in my lap. Around ten, Felicity comes in, already in her pajamas.

“Can I…?” she asks, a tad hesitantly.

I shift over until there’s space in the middle for her to flop down. Soon enough she’s out, too, curled up a respectable distance from her brother. The knot in my chest that’s been there since the night we went to the hospital loosens just slightly. Because it’s sweet, and gentle, and familiar, and though we haven’t done anything like this in years and the memories are dusty, I can still dredge up the warmth of the three of us piled up in Monty’s bed back at the Montague House. 

Felicity didn’t hang with us very often back then, usually preferring to go traipsing about with her friend, Johanna, but sometimes she’d come in all covered in mud and we’d all have hot chocolate and then she’d collapse right between us, her hair full of leaves and sticks. Monty would complain, and she’d kick him in the shin, and I’d ask her politely to stop. She usually agreed to keep the peace when I was the one who asked. 

I sigh wistfully, setting my book aside. I miss those days. Everything has changed so much… it’s hard to remember what things used to be like. I wonder if this, too, will end—if I’ll slowly lose this feeling, too, as time goes on. I hope not. There’s a part of me, a rather large part, that would do anything to hold onto this forever. To never again have to feel the tectonic plates of change shifting under my feet.

Which brings me to the seizure, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake, which comes the very next day.

It happens early. Felicity is in the living room packing up her things to head back to school, and Lockwood is out getting groceries, leaving me and Monty alone in the kitchen. Instead of doing something productive, like talking, we are bickering over the last hot pocket. 

It’s not fun. I’m not feeling that great, partly because the last of the Bond suppressants are out of my system now. As a result I’m a little touchy, feeling an itch that I know I can’t scratch, mostly because it isn’t mine. It’s Monty’s, and it’s incredibly unpleasant. And of course that isn’t all. In addition to the second-hand withdrawal, I feel tired and shaky. I just… didn’t sleep well, even with Monty and Felicity in the bed with me. I kept jerking myself awake to make sure he was still breathing on his side of the bed. 

I shake myself, refocusing on the conversation. Where were we? Breakfast?

“—god, you should see the fucking tabloids,” Monty is saying, his hands twitching. He’s pale and kind of sweaty, and I think he started arguing about the hot pocket less because he actually wants it and more just for the sake of being contrary. “Talking about me like I’m some fucked-up shitstain. Like, hello—I’m a real human person, thanks. God.”

I hum. My head hurts. I just want to go back to bed.

Monty huffs. He drags his hands through his hair, messing it up. “God,” he says again, low and painful. “Percy, don’t hate me for this, but… I’d do anything to get high right now.”

Yeah, I… wait. That’s not good. I should… I should say something. I’m not sure what, exactly—_no, don__’t do it? Please, think of the children?_—but before I can get myself together and get anything out he laughs, a hoarse, self-deprecating sound.

“I sound like a mental patient,” he says. “Maybe the reporters are right—I _am_ a fuck up.”

“You’re not,” I say, the words tumbling clumsily from my lips. 

He doesn’t seem to notice the strain in my voice. “I am, though. Just the stupid, fucked-up son of a respectable man. I’m an embarrassment to my family—”

“No, come on. You’re a good kid, Monty, they’re just—”

He cuts me off with a sour laugh. “Me? Good? You’re joking.”

Loving Monty is like loving the ocean, I’ve found. Like sailing on the open seas, no land in sight. Some days the water is calm and gentle, so sweet it will rock you right to sleep with a tenderness almost too good to be true. Other days you have to fight tooth and nail to keep hold of the rigging on the deck, have to take down the sails before they’re torn to shreds in the whipping wind.

Right now, the scale is tipping toward the latter.

I shake my head. I want to respond, to refute him, but the vague ‘bad’ feeling that’s dogged me all morning has suddenly made its presence known in a big way. It’s like I’ve been caught between two snares, each pulling me in opposite directions. I’m stretched taut, trapped, and I can only stretch so far before I’m bound to tear right in half. 

I make a slow-motion grab for the counter as the world starts to go hazy around me.

“Monty…” I say.

He’s not listening. “I mean, I’m handsome as hell, sure, but my head? Fucked. My instincts? Fucked. My sense of self? _Super_ fucked—”

“Monty.”

“It’s like, who created me? Because I’d like to have a damn word with—”

“_Monty_.”

He turns, _finally_, but I can already tell it’s too late. The aura singing at the edges of my vision has started to eclipse it. I’m going down, and I’m going down hard, though I don’t even realize because my body is not my own. My knees have hit the floor but I don’t feel it, I don’t feel anything. I’ve lost track of my sight, of Monty, of everything. I have nothing. I am nothing.

I blank out under the onslaught of the electrical storm that has taken hold of my brain.

…I come around slowly, though ‘come around’ is something of a kinder phrasing for it. Felicity would tell you that it’s the post-ictal state, the state of altered consciousness between a seizure and true wakefulness wherein the brain recovers from the trauma of convulsions. I, on the other hand, would call it relearning how to be human. 

It’s monumentally disorienting, is the thing. Every time it happens it’s like I’m beginning life again. I have nothing, no memories. I have no personality and no wants, I desire nothing. I am blank, nothing and no one. And then, like a babe new to this world, I am thrust onto the physical plane with sounds and smells and feelings and from there must relearn _everything_: every inch of my body, every sensation inside and out of it, the world and the people in it and my place among them. 

It’s awful. And, as always, it begins with motion. My breath, thick and heavy in my heaving chest. Then, following after, comes the rest of my body, dense and weighted. There’s a buzzing in my ears, and a taste, so bitter that I choke on it. I gag before I fully understand why I’m gagging, coughing up things that slide across my tongue and down the side of my cheek. My side is pressed against something hard, though my head is cushioned, and muscle by muscle I feel my way down my limbs, acknowledging the shakiness but not knowing what’s caused it. The light is bright, the air is cold—everything swims around me as I raise my head. It is disorienting, and I am weak. I’m nauseous, sick, shaky. Speech is beyond me.

This one… this was a bad one.

The world around me comes slowly into focus. The buzzing in my ears coalesces into voices, though I can’t yet understand what they’re saying. It’s here that memories begin to come. They’re slow, pieced together with flimsy lengths of string that I have to physically drag into place. I remember the kitchen, the countertops that are now above my head, the fluorescent light above. I remember speaking, my voice clumsy and my hands stiff. I remember shaking my head at… at…

It’s with a start that I dredge up Monty’s face, that particular expression he gets when he’s feeling trapped, like he does when someone tries to tell him he’s a good person. It never lasts long on his face, always replaced by a raucous laugh and a declaration of “if you think I’m good then you haven’t met me,” but in my memories, it stretches on and on and on.

I am suddenly stricken with the thought that Monty won’t be there when I open my eyes again. I’ll be utterly alone, under the flood of fluorescent light, laid bare like a cut of meat. He’s left me, he’s gone, he’s—

“Shhh…” says a voice near my head. “Take it easy, Percy.”

“Why’s he doing that? Why’s he breathing like that?” asks another voice, this one in front of me. “What’s wrong with him? Is he having some kind of reaction to my overdose? Oh, god, oh, god, I’ve killed my _Pain Pal_—”

“Monty,” says the first voice, soft and careful, as if to a spooked horse. “Shut the hell up.”

Monty. Monty. Monty. He’s here, he’s—I whine, forcing my eyes open. It takes a long moment to focus on anything, my vision swirling, but then—then he’s there, his blond hair haloed by the fluorescent light above, eyes wide and his hands hovering between us.

My hands are barely mine, but I still manage to fumble one forward, grabbing clumsily at one of his. His fingers close desperately tight around mine.

From there, things are fairly clinical. Felicity asks the standard questions I’ve gotten used to hearing from doctors and paramedics alike. The ‘do you know where you are’ and ‘can you name the president’ and ‘was this your first seizure’ questions. I slowly become more cognizant as she goes, my consciousness lighting up like a dimmer switch being cranked higher. 

It’s then that I start to panic. Because just like that, the secret is out, and I have no idea what Monty is going to say.

What he’s going to _do_.

I push myself up all at once, ignoring the way my stomach lurches and my head spins. My hands are like ice, my heart pumping frantically in my chest, and I think I’m squeezing his hand too tight but I can’t tell for certain. “Percy, wait—” Felicity says, reaching for me, but I am a tad beyond reason. I open my mouth and find, all of a sudden, that I can’t form words—I can’t come up with a defense—I’m trapped in my own head and he’s going to leave, he’s going to get up and he’s going to leave, he’s going to leave me for real forever right here and right now—

It’s then that Felicity pushes between me and Monty, placing both hands on my shoulders and shaking me just slightly. 

“Deep breath,” she commands, and I realize I’m gasping, short panicked sips of air. I try, try to breathe, but my lungs are numb and I just—I can’t. 

“Percy,” she says, still holding tight to my slumping shoulders. “Look at me, Percy. Follow my example.”

I find her lips with my hazy gaze, parted on a slow inhale. I focus all my energy on them, trying again, trying harder—but my heart is pounding and my vision is spotting and it feels like I’m going to die and I think I might have swooned if she wasn’t literally holding me up.

“Come on, Percy,” she says, breathing out slowly. “Come on. Just one deep breath, okay?”

Hhhh, okay. Okay. I can do this, I can—I suck in some air, and it wheezes in my chest. It’s not very deep at all but Felicity nods encouragingly as if I’ve accomplished something. I breathe out, my lungs hitching—and then in, a little slower and a little longer this time. Out… and in. Out and in. Out and in.

“Good,” Felicity says. “Good, Percy, good.”

I don’t feel good, not at all, but that’s only to be expected. I shake my head a little, dazed and dizzy and still so, so scared. A seizure… and then a panic attack… god. Okay. Okay.

…I think I need to lay down.

“Alright,” Felicity says, and then she gestures Monty forward. “Grab that arm,” she says, directing Monty to wrap said appendage around his shoulders. I wobble as I’m slowly lifted to my feet, a Montague under each arm, my head swimming so badly that I can barely stand straight. They take me the few steps from the kitchen to the couch and then lower me down.

“I’m so sorry,” I manage to say through numb lips, and then I’m out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET


	22. The Dream

It’s said that Bonds are actual extant things, strings of energy woven between the very atoms of the world itself. They are intangible, untouchable, and resist the laws of physics, but exist all the same. Whether naturally occurring or deliberately placed by the hand of the divine, we may never know, but either way, there _must_ be a literal connection between two people, Bound.

Someday, say theorists, some inventor will create some sort of meter that can detect the energy of Soulbonds. A barometer of Pain, a seismometer of Pleasure. Science will be able to define and quantify Fate itself, and we’ll come forward into a new era of understanding.

Until then, all I have are dreams, and in my dreams, I see my own outstretched hand, backlit by a swirling vortex of golden light.

It’s bright. So bright. Like luminescent dust, a thousand million little particles that form and unform and reform. Through my fingers I can almost see their outline—it’s in the shape of a human, limbs and head and hair all afloat around a brilliantly lit face, so familiar it aches. 

A name falls from my lips—his name. The only name I’ve ever known. His head does not turn, but I can tell he’s looking at me, his eyes white-hot and burning with intensity. I say it again, and as I do I feel a warmth in my chest—I look down and find that a few of those illuminated dust motes have drifted over, from him to me. They flit around me like something living, minuscule lightning bugs, so pure and vibrant. I watch as one alights on my naked chest, the light sinking in through my skin until I feel it, in my ribs and lungs and heart, until its warmth is pumping through all the veins of my body, fingertips to toes.

I look up again. _Thank you_, I want to say. But he’s turned away, now, looking off into the distance. As I watch, he slowly shakes his head, taking a step away from me. And then another. And another. He’s bright, so bright, but as he goes he takes the light with him. Blues and blacks seep in from behind me, coiling around my ankles—I stumble over them as I try to follow. I reach, my hand searching for him, for the light, but it’s too far away to touch. He is a pinpoint of infinite brightness, a single star, unobtainable. My chest aches from the absence, the warmth seeping from my limbs. I fight and fight, but no matter what I do I just get colder, and slower, and darker. 

I’m losing him. 

He’s gone.

I’m alone.

I’m lost.

When I wake, the first thing I notice is the fact that my mouth tastes like death. I ignore it, blinking slowly. Felicity is sitting across from me, a book in her lap. The sun is just starting to set, the morning long over, and I’ve missed my classes for the day. I can’t find it in myself to care. The ache inside me is too strong. Instead, I just lay there for a while, as the glow of the sunset grows more and more orange, the walls lighting up like embers. Everything is quiet. Peaceful.

It doesn’t last. I shift a little too loudly and Felicity looks up, nailing me with a piercing gaze. “Ah,” she says. “He lives.”

I crack a small smile, giving up on the pretense of resting. I’m still tired, but I know I’m not going back to sleep just yet. Her eyes are shrewd, focused so intently on me that I want to squirm. 

“Are you all right?” she asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes are picking me apart. “…You’re not,” she says.

Welp. “No. I’m not,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Where’s Monty?”

She tugs one of her feet under her, her book resting on her knee. “At class. He’ll be back soon.”

He’ll be back. I close my eyes and sink back into the cushions, letting those words wash over me. He’s gone but he’ll be back. He’s coming back.

At least… at least for now. He might not want to stay after I tell him what I have to tell him, but that’s… we’ll figure that out when we get there.

Speaking of. “Percy…” Felicity says, biting her lip. “Would you tell me what’s going on?”

I have nothing left to hide. So I do. I tell her, just like I told Lockwood when he stumbled on a seizure. 

I expect it to burn on my tongue, this secret I’ve been holding for so long, but… it doesn’t. It comes out as if it was waiting right there at the back of my throat. She listens and doesn’t say a thing until I reach the end, and then she goes, “Goddamnit, Percy, you’re supposed to be the reliable one.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, small and meek. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t mean… this isn’t your fault. It’s just that I wish you’d told us sooner.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All this time, you’ve been dealing with this alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“God, and the _surgery_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“_Stop_ saying you’re sorry!”

“…Sorry,” I say, unable to stop. I bite my lip. 

She sighs, rolling her eyes up toward the ceiling. Then she nails me with a look. “You’re going to tell Monty, right? What you’ve just told me?”

I nod, miserable. 

“Good. Because I’ve had quite enough of this secret-keeping business.”

I nod again, thinking that’s going to be that, but she’s not quite done airing out my dirty laundry just yet. I eye her as she actually sets her book down for the next bit, leaning forward. 

“One last thing. Just to make sure that everybody is on the same page.” She pauses for effect, or maybe just to torment me, before she says, “You are in love with my brother.”

I choke on my spit. “What?” I demand, coughing into my fist. “Why would you—why—I—”

“No, don’t you _dare_ deny it, Percy Newton.”

I stare helplessly. What am I supposed to say to that? ‘No, sorry, you’ve got the wrong guy, I’m _not_ the one who has been mooning over your brother for the past, god, has it really been six years’? No can do. My bed has been made, and now I’m lying in it.

“What are you going to do with that information?” I ask warily.

Across from me, Felicity sighs. “I won’t tell him, don’t worry. That’s for you to do.” Then, before I can protest, she says, “I read an interesting research paper the other day.” She’s looking at me very intently like I’m supposed to be following.

I’m not following.

She breathes out, pursing her lips a little in a frown. “It was about Soulmate Bonds. It really was rather interesting.”

“Does this have something to do with the fact that everyone and their mother knows that Monty and I are destined to be platonic for the rest of our lives? Because I’m aware,” I say. I don’t mention the fact that every time I think we might be closing in on becoming something more, one of us pulls back at the last second. I’ll take the blame for the kiss—that was my fault, for putting so much of my own heart out there, for getting hurt when he didn’t return my feelings. And then again, when I offered to run away with him. And we still have the aftermath of the seizure to deal with, and… I sigh. My bitterness would be burning a hole straight through the floor if I weren’t so damn tired.

I expect Felicity to be taken at least somewhat aback by either the sharp words or the bitter tone, but she just shakes her head like I’m nothing more than a grumpy child. “That’s what I mean, though. The idea of ‘platonic Bonds’ is outdated. The whole premise of the paper was an attempt to re-frame the idea of ‘platonic’ and ‘romantic’ Soulbonds as ‘passive’ and ‘active’ because that better describes their synthesis within the brain.”

“You’re talking about… what, neuroscience?”

“Neurophysiology, to be exact.”

I blow out a breath, willing myself to be calm and not tense up. It doesn’t work very well—I had a lot of these conversations when I spent four days in the neurology department of the city hospital, and none of them ended well for me. It was ‘more tests are needed’ and ‘this isn’t going away’ and ‘you’re an epileptic, Percy.’ Highly unpleasant.

Not minding me in the slightest, Felicity keeps going, now pulling out her phone to show me pictures of brain scans as she goes. She’s getting a dreamy look in her eyes—she’s in her element. “Look, here’s the control—someone with zero Bonds. Here’s someone with a passive Bond… and here’s someone with an active Bond. See the difference in the supramarginal gyrus and the amygdala?”

I reach around the blanket on top of me to take her phone, bringing it up to my face so I can squint at the minuscule scans. “Uh… this one has more red in it?”

“Good enough. More red means more activity. A passive Bond is always lit, and while an active Bond is usually lit to some degree as well compared to the control, it doesn’t _really_ light up until oxytocin, the ‘love’ hormone, is released into the body. Look—” she scrolls downward, for another set of diagrams. “—Here’s an activated active Bond. See all that activity?”

Nodding, I pass the phone back. “That’s great and all, but… why do I care if Bonds are passive or active or what?”

“Well, I guess you don’t. But you _do_ care that a Pain Bond lights the supramarginal gyrus and a Pleasure Bond lights the amygdala.”

“…Why?”

“Because it means that the bond types aren’t mutually exclusive!” she says, throwing up her hands. “The only reason not many pairings have both Bond types at once is because of the social stigma of having sex with your Pain Pal! Pain Pals are usually the same sex or even family members, so it’s a huge taboo to have sex with them, but that _doesn__’t mean Bonds never cross_.” She sniffs. “God, you and Monty must be made for each other because I tried to explain this to him like two days ago and I had to break it down into kindergarten sized words.”

At that, I bark out a surprised laugh. “You told him this Bond stuff, too?”

She huffs. “Yes. And trust me, I won’t be doing it again. It’s like lecturing at a brick wall.”

“He nearly died, cut him some slack,” I say, and then the words catch up to me and the smile slips from my face. 

It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud. Not some euphemism—a close call or a bad time or the dumbest thing he’s ever done. No, this is real and uncut—he nearly _died_, and I almost went with him.

There’s a part of me that’s distanced enough from the fear to be angry. Angry at the position he’s put us in, angry that it’s come to this. Drugs are no joke, no matter how much Monty wants to pretend they are, how much he’ll downplay exactly how detrimental they are to us and our Bond. Monty put us in danger, and I’m _furious_.

Or I would be, if there wasn’t another part of me now battling for dominance—the part that’s been keeping secrets from him for years, the part that’s _guilty_. It’s confusing, and I don’t know which part is going to win out, which one deserves more space in my head. Is Monty more at fault, or am I? I had my reasons to do what I did, but then again so does he. I can’t blame him for trying to cope with a bad situation. I can’t blame him for making a mistake.

So what am I supposed to do?

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” Felicity comments, as I’m dithering back and forth in my head. “Care to share with the class?”

“I think I’ve shared enough for the day,” I say, shaking my head. Then I push the blanket back and struggle up in search of a toothbrush and some numbing meds for the soreness.

I’ve finished scrubbing the disgusting taste out of my mouth and have just laid back down with my meds when the front door opens and Monty comes in, just like Felicity promised. 

He still looks sallow and worn, but now he also looks worried, his eyes going straight to me the moment he’s in the door. “Hey, you’re awake,” he says.

My freshly cleaned mouth goes dry. “Yeah,” I croak. Felicity politely excuses herself down the hall, giving me a very pointed look the whole way, as I sit back up on shaky arms.

“Good,” Monty says. He pauses in the door for a long moment before he walks slowly across the room and flops down into Felicity’s abandoned chair.

“Yeah,” I say again, wincing at myself even as the word leaves my lips. It’s woefully inadequate. 

Monty fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “So… are you… are you feeling okay?”

I mean to say that I’m fine, but instead, I open my mouth and different words come, building and building until they’re pouring out as waterfall of information, an explanation and a justification and a defense all at once, the whole thing ending in an apology.

“Do you have… questions?” I ask, after the silence in the wake of the deluge has worn on for several minutes too long.

Monty runs a hand down his face, quick, there and gone. “Yeah. Only like a hundred.”

I nod for him to continue.

His lips pout out as he fumbles his way around the first one. “Are you—I mean, is it—uh—?”

I huff a small laugh. “It’s not contagious, Monty, jeez. It’s twenty-nineteen, how do you not know that?”

“I knew it just fine!” he snaps, but he’s laughing, too, and the tension between us breaks. We’re back to normal.

Well, mostly. Monty sobers quickly, which is a first. He then glances shrewdly at me through squinted eyes and says, “This has been happening for years.”

“Since I was sixteen, yeah. How did you…?”

“I felt it.”

I do not like where this is going. “What does it feel like?” I ask.

“Well… not much, to be honest. I get kinda, like… sluggish? It’s like the world speeds up around me and I’m off-center for a few minutes. I thought it was all in my head, but…”

And here he nails me with a look that I can’t escape from and asks, “Why did you never tell me?”

I scoff, partly to buy myself time and partly to avoid the sorrow blanketing his gaze. I don’t know how to say ‘I was afraid of you looking at me just like this’ so I do the next best thing: I lace my tongue with barbs and loose it on him with an acidic laugh. “When was I supposed to tell you? Between the beatings and the drugs and the suicidal ideation?” I ask. It turns out that anger and guilt can coincide after all.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is so gentle that I wince. “That’s not fair, I’m not some broken eggshell that you have to tiptoe over—”

“Neither am I,” I say.

He pouts. “I never said you were—”

“You didn’t. But you’re still looking at me like you pity me.”

And with that, his mouth snaps shut. No denial. No ‘of course I’m not, Percy, don’t be silly’. He can’t deny it because it’s right there, clear as day, and I… I always knew that eventually, this day would come.

“You just—you should have _told me_,” Monty says, and looks at me like he’s seeing something broken. 

It hurts just as much as I feared. 


	23. The Talk

Things are strained in the apartment the next day. As best I can tell, the situation is as follows: Monty is upset that I didn’t tell him about the epilepsy, made all the worse by the fact that he’s withdrawing from the drugs and is pretending not to feel guilty about the fact that he ODed and nearly killed us both. I’m upset that telling Monty about the epilepsy changed our relationship in exactly the way I feared it would, made all the worse by the fact that Monty’s withdrawal is crossing over the Bond to me and I’m guilty about the fact that I kept the secret from him for so many years. Felicity, caught between us, is upset that she’s had to postpone leaving until we’ve gotten ourselves figured out, putting her education on the line. Monty is even more upset to have his sister dogging his heels, which is upsetting me, which is upsetting Felicity. And Lockwood is upset about the fact that the house is being overrun by teenage/young adult drama.

It’s a conundrum, for sure. And it's got to get worse before it gets better.

“Monty, Percy… I want you to meet Sim.”

The two of us look up from our textbooks at the same time. There’s a girl standing in our doorway, just behind Felicity—her hair is covered by a moss green scarf, and she has a brown leather jacket with sleeves rolled up to her elbows pulled tight over her chest. She doesn’t smile as she studies us.

“Ah, the infamous Sim,” Monty says, holding out a hand. 

“You must be Monty. I’ve heard so much about you,” Sim replies, not taking it.

Felicity laughs at the offended expression on Monty’s face, and I smother a smile. I will admit, it’s a nice break from the silence that has covered the apartment since yesterday. Our actions may be in sync, make-up homework done in tandem, but everything else is stiff, stilted. We need a distraction. 

“Sim, this is Percy,” Felicity says. I go to shake Sim’s hand and spot a sliver of a tattoo, deep blue-black against her dark skin, which is darker than mine by a good few shades. The ink is outlined in a blood-red Mark.

I blink, everything clicking into place all at once. Felicity’s Mark—the knife and crown that adorns her forearm, seaglass green—came when she was thirteen. Sim is maybe a year or so older than her, and must have been the Bond producer that caused it. 

I wondered when they’d meet. If they ever would. Felicity used to be so adamant that she didn’t have any fully reciprocated bonds—the one she shared with Johanna was stunted, Johanna gaining Marks from Felicity but Felicity never getting any in return. She used to think that the Green Marks were just another half-bond, her feeling the pain of someone who would never reciprocate. But alas, here’s Sim, fully reciprocating.

I wonder what their Meeting was like. I was too little to remember my Meeting with Monty—we were barely three, after all. I’ve wished before that we met later in life, that Fate could have given us a Meeting right out of a fairy tale, but… I’m glad it happened the way it did. I can’t imagine life without Monty, and I don’t want to, no matter how hard he makes it for me or how sadly he looks at me now when he thinks I’m not looking.

Anyway. Distractions. Like Sim, and the fact that Felicity announces that they will _both_ be staying with us until further notice. Felicity then plops next to Monty on the couch and makes grabby hands until Sim pulls a bundle of papers out of the messenger bag slung across her back and hands them over.

“Uhhh… no offense intended, but why?” Monty asks.

“Because,” Felicity snorts. “ I’m not leaving until you get some help, and Sim has my classwork.”

“I don’t need _help_,” Monty says, a disdainful look on his face. Felicity and I exchange a look.

Monty has done good so far. He’s been resting, as the doctors instructed. He’s been taking care of himself. And, best of all, he hasn’t gotten high. Yet. The ‘yet’ hangs heavy on the air, because I know his need like it’s my own, and I also know that he snuck out last night to get a bottle of vodka. He didn’t drink any, or at least not enough to cross the Bond, but… that’s how it starts. The alcohol, and then the drugs, and then too many drugs and… I’m not strong enough to do this again. I’m not.

“Monty…” I say.

“_You_ have nothing to say to me, Mr. I Like Keeping Secrets,” he says, focusing again on his homework. His fingers are twitching.

I can see the moment he regrets what he said, glancing over with that pity in his eyes. I close my mouth, looking away.

So Felicity and Sim stay. Sim takes the couch, and Lockwood shakes his head when he finds yet another stray hanging around, and we’re stuck, stuck, stuck. 

That night, I wake with the heady feeling of alcohol swirling through my system. Monty is gone when I roll over, and I don’t know where he is. I close my eyes but sleep doesn’t come until I hear him closing the door oh-so-carefully in the early hours of the morning. He climbs into bed on the other side of Felicity and I can finally relax. For now.

Days go by. Monty drinks. And drinks. And then, just when I think he’ll beat the drugs yet, he breaks down and gets high. 

I start sleeping in my own bed again, but I can still feel the need in his veins night after night, and the responding high that always comes. Nothing seems to be getting through to him. Not Lockwood’s lectures or my silent worry or Scipio’s sincerity. He’s an island all his own.

Until the night I catch him sitting out on the roof of the carport, that is. I feel him bang his ankle on something and get up to investigate, creeping into his room. Felicity is dead asleep in bed, but the window is open, and out on the carport I can see Monty’s silhouette, backlit by the light across the parking lot. I expect him to go toward the hedge at the far end, where he can shimmy down to the ground level, but he doesn’t. He just sits himself down on the edge, looking out.

I climb out after him, shuffling along the grooves of the roof until I’m right next to him.

I’m not sure what it is that finally makes him crack. If it’s the velvety darkness of the new moon or the late hour or just the misery of so many days with the pressure of everyone’s worry all compounding inside him, mixing like mentos and coke with the fear that he ODed once and it could happen again. Whatever it is, I’m grateful as he rests his head on my shoulder and asks, “Why are you so afraid of the surgery?”

I look out at the lot below us, the chill of a fall night seeping in through my sweater. “They want to remove a piece of my brain. To take out the part that causes the seizures.” I pause, for just an instant, cataloging what it is, exactly, that pains me so to imagine. “It’s… part of it is that it’ll hurt. They say to expect severe pain for the first few days and moderate pain and headaches for a few weeks after that. They’ll give me painkillers and numbing agents so it won’t be that bad, but it’s still brain surgery. They also say to expect a sympathetic response across the Bond. You might get scar tissue, or experience some cell death. And… there’s the fact that removing a piece of my brain might change my life for the worse. I might lose the ability to speak, or eat, or my personality might change, or…”

I can’t finish. It’s too much to think about, all at once. It’s like a tidal wave, sweeping in and taking all of me with it. 

Monty hums. “…But is it worse than what you’re going through now?” he asks, when it becomes clear that I’m done.

I sigh and drag a hand down my face. It’s a question that has kept me up late, torn between a desire to be better and the fear that the surgery won’t get me there. “Don’t get me wrong,” I say, “the epilepsy is plenty bad. My meds barely help and I can’t drive or drink coffee or eat certain things. And the hospitals—god, Monty, the _hospitals_. And it’s just—it’s been _hell_ sometimes, but… I’d rather live with this and still be me than have the surgery and become someone else.”

Things are quiet between us for a long moment. I think about the surgery, and he thinks about whatever it is that’s on his mind, and the night breeze sings at the edges of our clothes, little fingers tugging as if to urge us onward.

“Why do you ask?” I say, finally.

He stays silent. I think he’s not going to answer, that he’s just going to let the moment go, until…

“I’m scared to go to rehab. I don’t know who I am under the high. I feel like I won’t… like me.”

His voice is small, careful, as if he’s expecting me to hear his words and pull back in disgust. _Ah_, I think. So that’s the reason he’s been resisting so hard. 

It makes sense. Monty has always been good at running. He runs away from problems, brushes them away and takes off toward the next distraction that catches his interest. Accountability? Not for Henry ‘Monty’ Montague. He lives life hard and fast, always aimed for the next big thing. For a long time now, the next big thing has been his next hit. His next high. And without that…

Without that he’s going to have to come to terms with all the things he’d rather leave behind. All the ugly things inside.

I tilt my head down until it’s resting on top of his, my hand seeking out his. “I think you’ll be fine,” I say. 

He sighs. “What you’re too polite to say is that whoever comes back can’t be worse than the asshole who nearly killed us both to get high, right?”

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, low enough to not disturb his head on my shoulder or mine on his. “Yeah, kinda,” I say, and he flicks me.

We’re silent for another long stretch of time. I think about the surgery and he thinks about rehab and we think about who we’ll be if one or both come to pass. I wonder if, someday, those two people who are not quite us will meet. Will they fall in love? Will they live the life I so desperately want? Would it be easier, kinder, to let this happen?

I’m not sure. I’ve been avoiding things, too—avoiding telling Monty about the epilepsy, avoiding thinking about the surgery. I’ve become so distanced that I’m not sure of anything anymore. What if the Percy who comes back after the surgery doesn’t love Monty like I do? What if the piece of my brain that they take out is the sinful little bastard that has made me fall in love with my Pain Pal in the first place?

Who would I be without it?

…I can’t do it. I can’t let that happen. I _will_ hold onto him even if it’s the last thing I do, I _swear_ it.

“You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” Monty asks, into the darkness. “No matter who comes back? Even if it’s… if it’s not who you think I am, or who you think I should be?”

I raise his knuckles to my lips and press a silent kiss there, my newfound resolve pulsing through my heart, my body. “Yeah. I’ll be waiting. You just have to promise you’d do the same for me.”

He nods, his hand holding mine tight. We spend the rest of the night sitting outside together, letting our butts go numb as we stare up at the sky. The next day we call the local rehab center. They send someone in a van to come pick him up, and the rest of us give him words of encouragement, and he flashes one of those not-quite-there smiles as he gets in. I know he’s worried, I know he’s scared, but there’s never been a version of him that I didn’t love to pieces. I watch him go, knowing that I’ll love whoever comes back to me.

And, despite myself… I start to hope. That someday isn’t so far off now. That when he comes back I can ask him to run away with me and this time he’ll say yes. That we’ll make it, for once and for all.

Before we get there, however, we need to get through rehab, and rehab is, hands down, the most _grueling_ thing either of us has ever been through. 

The withdrawal is the first thing. It gets worse, and then worse again, before it even begins to get better. I get nightly calls from the rehab center, a special perk of being Monty’s registered Pain Pal—any time a major event crosses the Bond I get to hear about it, and detox, unlike a seizure, is considered a major event.

By the second day, I’ve started to see why. 

I moan as there’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Percy, are you coming out any time soon?” Lockwood asks. He knocks a second time when I don’t answer. 

Ugh. I shakily paw for the sink, intending to wash my mouth out. I’ve just finished purging my stomach of everything that’s ever been in it, and _boy_ do I wish someone had told me that detox can cause fluctuations in Bond strength. It’s probably in one of those damn pamphlets we brought home from the hospital. I think I just puked up my meds. God.

Another knock, and I groan. 

“I just need to know if you’re going to make it to class today,” Lockwood says through the door. “I can go collect your notes for you if you’re still not feeling well.”

“Yeah, that would be—”

I cut off, planting a hand over my mouth. I mean to say that would be great, because no, I don’t think I’ll make it to class today, but my body has decided that a demonstration of ‘not feeling well’ is in order. 

God, this _sucks_.

Day three sees me with less nausea but now with a low-grade fever. I spend all day sleeping in Monty’s bed, hoping that he can get some sleep, too. I’m not sure he does.

I go to the student health center on the fourth day, hopeful that they’ll have some sort of miracle to help this along for both of us. The best they can do is more suppressants, however, and I politely decline. I’ll suffer through this on my own, thanks. 

Day five comes, and day five goes. I go back to class but my hands tremble when I try to hold my violin and my conductor sends me home early with a shake of his head.

On day six, I think we’re starting to get somewhere. The fever is gone on my end, and so is the nausea. I still feel kind of shaky, but it’s getting better. The doctor who calls that night tells me that they think they’re almost ready to move to phase two—the actual treatment, counseling and therapy and all that. I tell Felicity and she lets me hug her, hiding her relieved smile in my sweater.

After that things go faster. It’s still not fast enough. I know Monty will be there a minimum of twenty-seven more days, but it could be longer and we’ve never been apart longer than two weeks before. It hurts. I never knew I could miss someone so much. I’ll get to see him when he begins family and Bond therapy, but until then it’ll be me on my end and him on his.

Monty, it turns out, is not content with that. On day ten, I’m helping Lockwood with breakfast when I feel a pinch on my finger. I pause where I’m standing, my spatula in hand. I wait, confused. A few minutes go by, and then it happens again—pinch, hold, unpinch. 

I think about Helena and her father, pinching their fingers to reassure each other they were still there. I think about how alone Monty is right now, completing an inpatient rehab program all on his own, with only me and Felicity waiting. Then I raise a hand and take hold of the little fold of skin between my thumb and my pointer finger, tightening until I feel pain. I hold for a few seconds, then let go.

I get two pinches in response, almost like a thank you. I smile and go back to stirring the eggs in the pan in front of me.

It’s then that I know everything truly will be okay.


	24. The Breakthrough

Two days later, Felicity and I are invited to the rehab center for their weekend visiting hours. Monty, though thin and pale, looks more awake, more alive, than I’ve seen him in a good long while. We talk for a bit, just catching up, making sure he’s doing okay, before we’re pulled into the psychologist’s office for the real stuff.

If I thought detox was taxing, then talking about coping mechanisms and root causes and emotions is just as bad, only in a mental way instead of a physical one. It takes Monty a good few weeks to turn himself around and admit that no, actually, the way he grew up wasn’t normal, wasn’t good. I listen as Monty and Felicity each share their accounts of growing up in the Montague House, how all the attention was placed on Monty and none of it on Felicity. Then I listen some more as the therapist explains why and how atypical upbringings can cause addiction. And then, after that, I learn that Pain Bonds are among the leading causes of substance dependency. People fall into substance habits both as a response to the pain they receive across the Bond and as a means to stop someone else from feeling _their_ pain.

“Addiction in Pain Pals isn’t as clean-cut as addiction in people with no Pain Bonds,” the therapist continues. Monty is sitting with his feet up on an empty chair and his arms crossed over his chest—he’d look casual if I didn’t know that he’s missing his binder. “There’s a mental acclimation to the high on both sides of the Bond. The receiver may get used to the high and seek it out even when the producer is sober. Which means that you are the other piece to this puzzle, Percy. If you feel yourself sliding, then you need to make sure you get the help you need, because a Pain Pal’s first defense against addiction is a clean and sober Bond. Monty isn’t the only one who has to fight.”

I nod, my mouth clenched tight. I think I’m starting to understand something about addiction, and the hand I’ve played in it. When Monty would ask me to drink for him to numb the pain and I did it, no questions asked… I should have questioned it. I should have looked deeper, should have listened to the little voice inside me saying that this wasn’t a road we wanted to go down. We feel pain for a reason—it’s a warning that something is wrong. When you numb that pain without getting to the source of the issue, you’re not going to heal. It’s like putting a band-aid on a stab wound.

So I do my best to help Monty address the actual issues that led us here. And as I do, I begin to realize more and more just how deep the rabbit hole goes with Mr. Montague. It’s then that I figure out why exactly it is that Monty never raises his hands to defend yourself.

“_Put your hands down, Henry_,” Monty says, in a just-barely-there French accent. It’s a spot-on impersonation of his father. “_If you want to pretend to be a man, you can take your hits like one.__”_

I wince. And then wince again, when I realize that we only have the end of the semester, winter holidays, and then one last semester before Monty is returned to his father to help run the estate while Henri the Senior is away on politician business. Which wouldn’t be so bad, really, if it didn’t mean that Monty would be in that house, doing something he’s not passionate about, likely forced into a marriage with a woman who he probably wouldn’t get to choose, and living under the constant threat of Mr. Montague, the base cause of all of Monty’s struggles. 

Oh, yeah, and the surgery. That’s also happening.

We’ve got to get out. We _have_ _to_. It’s a matter of survival. The thought is constantly at the back of my mind, a piece of me always looking, searching, for the right moment to ask him once more to leave with me. I don’t know when it will be, I don’t know how… I don’t know if I should wait until graduation or if it’s a case of the sooner the better. I don’t know. But it’s very clear at this point that we only have one real option. 

I just don’t know if Monty sees things the same way.

I sigh, alone in my room, staring at a stack of papers. Monty is going to be so behind in his classes once this hellmonth is over. Maybe I should wait to ask until finals are over.

_Or maybe_, says the little voice that has picked up psychoanalysis on the side, _you__’re just putting it off because you’re afraid he’ll say no_.

It’s possible. I’m learning that I’m not as sturdy as I once thought I was. I used to think that I was resilient, the kind of person that Monty could lean on. A rock for him to tie himself to when the going got tough and the current got dicey. And maybe I was, at one point, but… rock can be worn away an atom at a time by the relentless flow of water. I’ve started to fear that’s what happened to me. 

“That just means you have a chance to remake yourself,” the school counselor says, when I go to her with everything that’s been on my mind lately. “Think about it—if your sense of self has eroded over time, then you have the space to build a new one. That’s a great opportunity for growth, don’t you think?”

Yeah, maybe. Maybe it is. And maybe this time away from Monty is just as much for me as it is for him. The two of us have always been defined by pain, the distance between one bruise and the next, the space between one high and another… but maybe that’s not right. Maybe I need to think long and hard about what I want to do, who I want to be. I want to be the man that Monty deserves, but I also want to be someone who I like once everything else is stripped away.

I want to be strong. I want to be resilient. I want to be good. And I think that if I start now, I’ll be able to stand up for what’s right when the time finally comes.

After twenty-nine days of intense treatment, the rehab center staff and Monty come to an agreement that he’s ready to come back to the real world. Felicity is there with me and Lockwood to pick him up, and she stays long enough to get him settled back into his classes, and then she and Sim take off back to their own lives. We wave them off, then I sit Monty down to touch up his roots so we can go visit the _Eleftheria_. The moment he sees us Scipio walks over and pulls Monty into a hug, and just like that we’re back. Really, really back.

And with the good, the friends and the hugs and the dinners with Lockwood, there must also come the bad. The paparazzi have caught wind of rehab and start following us around everywhere we go, hoping to get the goods on Monty. To see him stumble, to see him slip. The world is watching, and Mr. and Mrs. Montague want Monty to know it. Monty endures not one but three calls from his mother warning him to keep his nose clean, and though I don’t feel the physical urge to get high crossing the Bond anymore I know that it’s still a struggle.

He surprises me, though. He keeps up with his aftercare program, goes to AA once a week, talks to his therapist… he takes care of himself. There are still plenty of people dictating to us what to do and how to do it, how to be right and proper and behave like the son of the governor and his Pain Pal are supposed to behave, but for the first time in… well, maybe ever, Monty does what’s right for himself instead of what’s right for his father.

Watching him grow, watching him fight on despite everything… it’s beautiful, and I’ve never been gladder to be his Pain Pal, to see all this firsthand.

The rest of the semester goes quickly. Monty fails a few classes, but we were expecting it, so it isn’t a huge blow. We stick around for the winter holidays so he can do some make-up classes and I realize one day near Christmas that we haven’t been home for longer than a few weeks in over a year. It’s a good feeling.

And then, just like that, it’s our final semester.

“What do you think, aquamarine? Or maybe something a little more subtle… periwinkle, maybe?”

I stare at the little bottles that Monty is holding up, resisting the urge to tell him that he’d look good with literally any color visible to the human eye, and probably a bunch of ones that are not. He’s looking for actual input here. Unfortunately for both of us, I’m the least qualified person to give it to him. 

“In all honesty, they both just look blue,” I admit after a few minutes spent looking hard from bottle to bottle.

Monty huffs, lowering them again to examine the labels. “_Musicians_,” he mutters. Then he places one of them back on the shelf, decision apparently made, and with no help whatsoever from me. Which is fine by me, really—blue is blue is blue. It’ll look great no matter what he picks.

We get home, and immediately get down to business. I get a playlist set up on my laptop while Monty covers the bathroom in plastic grocery bags from Lockwood’s stash. I never understood why he kept all of them until right this very moment. I also never thought I’d see Monty with blue hair, but here we are. I’ll admit, I’m excited.

“Okay,” he says, a moment later, putting the finishing touches down so we don’t accidentally dye the bathroom blue. “I’m ready.”

We get into position, Monty sitting on a chair from the kitchen and me behind him with a brush and some hair clips. I pick up the dye—he picked aquamarine after all—and squirt a generous helping onto the palm of my latex glove, getting ready.

It almost makes me nervous, doing this. This is a big change. Monty is not a natural blond—his natural color is a soft brown—but blue is decidedly not blond. Blue is out there, a call for attention, and I worry a little that he’ll get that attention from the wrong people. People like his father, maybe.

But Monty wants to do it, wants to get all the way in character as our university’s version of the Mad Hatter for the Alice in Wonderland production we’re putting on this year, and that’s all that really matters.

Well, that and the fact that I realize once I’ve started that the color matches his eyes, so maybe blue isn’t blue isn’t blue after all. I grin after we’re done as he shakes his hair out in front of the mirror, my natural response to seeing him alight and beaming. 

Yeah. Who cares about Henri the Senior? Mr. Montague who?

Of course, it isn’t all fun and games our last semester. We’ve barely scraped by with enough credits to graduate come April, and my Aunt and Uncle are practically breathing down my neck to make sure I’m getting all my work done so I’ll graduate in time for the surgery. In addition to Monty and Alice in Wonderland, the music department is putting on a senior concert, and my time is quickly eaten up by orchestra practice. I swear the callouses on my fingers have never been so thick. I have a mark on my jaw from the chin rest of my violin, one that shows up on Monty as a faint lilac haze. I have to actively resist reaching over and brushing my fingers over it whenever I see it.

We find ourselves working in parallel more often than not. Side by side, Monty running lines as I play measures. We do it at the apartment with Lockwood, and in the practice rooms at the school, and when Scipio and the men invite us over for dinner at the _Eleftheria_. It’s like we’re two comets in orbit around the sun, next to each other, so close that from far away it would look like we’re one and the same after all.

Monty’s play is scheduled to show the week before my concert. They’re putting on three performances over the course of the weekend: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I want to go see all of them, to cheer Monty on, but I’m in crunch time and I have a rehearsal scheduled during the first two. 

I think he’ll be nervous when I walk him backstage to get ready for his first performance. He’s not. He’s bubbling over with excitement, the kind that doesn’t come across the Bond but that still seems to spread around the room all the same. It’s like seeing a rainbow after a storm, all our hard work coming to a head all at once in a brilliant display. He’s nearly vibrating in his shoes as we walk inside. I give him a swift hug before he’s tugged away from me, and then I let him go, heading off to my own rehearsal.

I’m waiting outside the auditorium when the show lets out, people streaming past all a twitter. The production was good, by the sound of it—I listen for any mentions of the Mad Hatter but I don’t overhear any before I slip my way inside against the flow of the crowd. I’m dying to hear how Monty did, but I’d rather hear it from Monty himself.

I’m barely in the auditorium before a ball of stage-makeup, blue hair, and frenetic energy assaults me. I barely open my arms before he’s launching himself into them, and his momentum makes me stumble on my feet. He’s already talking, the joy thrumming through him.

“—God, Perce, it went _so well_. I mean, the booth screwed up a few lighting cues and Alice forgot one of her lines, but man, you should have _heard them_! The audience was_ loving it_! And—oh, shit, my manager is calling me. I need to help clean up and then we can head out, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, the grin on my face matching his. He turns to go, but not before leaning up and pressing a kiss, light as a feather, to my cheek.

I go still, dazed, before my heart starts to beat frantically in my chest. He’s off before I can question him, ask whether he meant the kiss _like that_ or if it was just a result of the residual excitement flowing through his veins. I’m not sure he even realized what he did, honestly—I cover my smile with one hand, my face flushed. Oh my god. And I’m going to have to go home with him later. Oh my _god_. I go and wait by the front entrance, replaying the moment that his lips met my skin over and over and over. 

He finds me there half an hour later. We head out, and I itch to take his hand. I’m still not sure what the kiss meant, though. If he meant it _like that_, he doesn’t mention it. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it happened. He was riding so high, I doubt he was even aware of what he was doing. In the end, I chalk it up to the excitement. 

Only he does it again the next day, when we’re heading home after his second performance. It’s more intentional this time, his lips lingering against my cheek before he pulls back, a smile on his face. 

This was no mistake. 

This was not the heat of the moment. 

This is Monty putting himself forward, subtle but sure.

This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’ll be _damned_ if I miss my shot again. I take his lead and reach out a hand, threading my fingers through his. Though we’ve done it a hundred times, it feels more real, more intentional, than it ever has before. I feel like I’m _home_.

The night of his final performance comes, the first one I’ve been able to attend. I get a seat near the front, close enough to make out the actors’ features. It’s a beautiful production, right from the beginning, but I’m anxious. I wait, shifting slightly in my seat, for Monty to come onstage. I enjoy the stage sets, and the humorous dialogue, and then, just when I’m starting to think that I don’t remember Alice in Wonderland very well, he shows up.

And he’s… perfect. All those months reading lines and I somehow missed how fluid, how dynamic he could be. He bounds around the tea table with Alice and projects his voice and laughs wildly and by _god_ am I in love with this man. I’ve never been so in love in my entire life, and seeing as I’ve spent nearly seven years pining after him, that sure is saying something. I watch him, rapt, every time he comes on stage, and then all through the bows and the applause and the standing ovation. I watch him until he notices me looking and casts the widest smile I’ve ever seen right at me. I feel like I could die right here and now and heaven wouldn’t be half as beautiful. My life has never been so good.

And then, just like that, it gets even better.


	25. The Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy's performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the main reason for the mature rating. If you don’t want to read the raunchy bits, skip from “After that, clothing becomes strictly optional” to “I rise up on my elbows” and you should be fine. Look at the end notes for a summary of the important parts.

It happens the night of my concert. It’s a magical night, a glorious night. It’s the night that everything finally, after all our pain and suffering, goes _right_.

Of course, it doesn’t start off anywhere near magical. It starts with me nearly hyperventilating from nerves just before the concert is scheduled to start. I’m standing outside the back entrance of the auditorium, hands on my knees, my face waxy and my breath unsteady. Monty and Helena stand beside me, Monty with his hand on my back. It’s not helping as much as I wish it would. 

“I’ve forgotten every note Michael Abels has ever written. _Help_,” I wheeze.

“Percy. Chill. You’ve got this,” Monty says, and I hate that there’s a laugh hidden in his voice. I am not, nor have I ever been, ‘chill’. Monty was so calm before the play… it seems as if I’ve taken his share of the stage fright and more. 

I practice deep breathing, feeling my stomach flip inside me. It’s not that I’m scared of playing in front of people, it’s just that I didn’t sleep well last night and sometimes bad sleep causes seizures and oh, yeah, one of my worst nightmares is that I’ll accidentally trigger a seizure in the middle of a performance and take out half the strings. Imagine what a showstopper that would be.

I’ll be fine once we actually get on stage. Probably. I get into a certain headspace when I play, and it’s like nothing can touch me. Up until we take our seats, however, I will be a wreck, and that is a promise.

I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t feel the need to throw up when I hear a voice approaching, one that is unfortunately familiar. A moment later, Duke Bourbon rounds the corner of the building not seven feet away from the three of us, leading a gaggle of football jocks. 

“Ah, if it isn’t the freak,” our dear friend says, spotting us. He swaggers over, his friends following behind. He looks high as fuck, his pupils blown wide under the outside light above me. Why these guys still hang around the college despite having graduated already is beyond me.

And all these years later, they’re still calling Monty a freak. God. I stop trying to convince myself that I don’t need to throw up so that I can do it on Duke’s shoes. Woefully, it doesn’t work. 

“Oh lovely, my favorite person in the entire world,” Monty says, his voice light and sarcastic. He then plants his hand protectively on the back of my neck, his gaze going hard. “Move along, friend. You have no business with us tonight.”

Duke sneers. “You’re right. I don’t want to be involved in this.” He makes a crude gesture at the two of us, and I realize that with me bending over and Monty so close to my side my chin is about level with his zipper. Duke is apparently taking great joy in that fact as he continues, “Though I _am_ curious if it counts as a blowjob if you don’t have a dick to blow.”

The guys behind him laugh, and I am acutely aware that there are three of them for every one of us. I curl my lip, hoping to appear threatening even through the ashy pallor and the nervous sweat decorating my face. _God_, they’re crude. Monty loves a good dirty joke, but there’s a difference between that and being gross and insensitive.

Monty, bless him, isn’t moved. I hate to imagine that he’s heard worse but god, he probably has. “Yeah, yeah,” he goes. “Good one. If we’re so unpalatable why don’t you just head on your way?”

Duke doesn’t move. Instead, his eyes flit over to Helena as if he’s just now noticing her for the first time. She narrows her eyes, sticking out her chin in challenge. “Oh,” he says. “Are we interrupting something between the _three_ of you? My my, Montague, that’s pretty kinky. A same-sex threesome with your Pain Pal? Scandalous. Your father would be proud.”

Monty’s hand tightens on the back of my neck just slightly. “Last warning,” he says.

Duke pretends to think about it. “…Nah. I think this is more fun. It’s like poking at a rotten apple to see all the worms squirm out. And we all know that rotten apples don’t fall far from the rotting tree.”

There is a split moment of time where I can practically hear Monty digesting the insult. I know that Duke has pushed too far, comparing Monty to his father, though Duke probably doesn’t realize exactly what he’s done. And I know that Monty doesn’t fight, as a rule, but I also know that there are always exceptions to the rules and that Duke may have just hit the one nerve that will make Monty lose it.

With that knowledge at the forefront of my mind, I rise to my full height, slip the violin from my back, and step between Monty and Duke before Monty can step forward to fight.

The next instant feels like it takes an eternity. Duke grins, his pupils black holes in his face. The boys behind him lean in, expectant. I raise the violin case, feeling adrenaline hit my system. Monty gasps at my back. Helena reaches forward as if to get between us all.

And then, just like that, my conductor arrives at the back door looking for me. He takes one look at us, one look at Duke and his cronies vastly outnumbering us, one look at the sky as if to ask the gods above for patience, and then sends Duke packing with a threat to call the asshole’s coach.

The jocks slink away, and I meet Duke’s eyes. _Later_, he seems to be saying. 

We’ll see about that.

“Percy,” the conductor says, his voice tired. “It’s time to come inside. Your friends can go around to the audience entrance.”

I wave Monty and Helena off, shouldering my violin again. Then I head inside, pull out my violin (and thank god I didn’t have to hit someone with it, holy _shit_), take my seat, and wait for the performance to start.

As predicted, I find the right headspace to play. The adrenaline helps, I think—I don’t feel sleep-deprived anymore. The songs tick by, measured by the bounce of the conductor’s baton. The slow-building tension of the strings… and the crescendo of the horns… the boom of the percussion… the current of the winds… all of it, all at once, comes together just right. My bow dances on the strings. I don’t have a seizure. I hit all the notes I’m supposed to hit. I feel, suddenly and inexplicably, like I was born for just this moment. I understand Monty’s energy the night after his first performance.

We end on a high note, literally and figuratively, bows suspended in the air for one long moment as the note rings into nothingness. The high is amazing, my entire body tingling and light. I glance out toward the crowd and I know that Monty is out there, watching. I feel his eyes on me like the burn of the sun.

The high endures past the end of the performance, past the conductor lowering his baton and leading us all in a bow. I’m still feeling it when I pack up my violin, when I find Monty waiting for me in the crowd. It’s singing in my blood when I take his hand in mine, see Duke in the distance, and take off running in the other direction. It’s a fair way home but the weather is warm and the weight of my violin is soothing on my back as our feet pound the pavement, far enough away to lose sight of him in the distance. I run until I’m gasping, and then I slow and the gasps turn to laughter, and I’m so caught up in it all that when Monty catches my eyes the first thought that crosses my mind is that I have never been happier. 

I think, by the way he rises on his toes to kiss me, that he feels the same.

We’ve been dancing around each other, a touch here and a brush there, neither of us quite bridging the gap all the way until, all at once, he’s _there_. I blink slowly, hungry for the feel of him but also not ready to give up the sight. It’s okay, though, because for once in our lives we are on the exact same wavelength. 

It’s everything like our first kiss, but nothing like it at the same time. It’s heady and intoxicating, fully reciprocated, and as it deepens and mouths open I want to give him _everything_. I want to feel everything he has to offer and I want to give him the universe in return, because it’s the only thing he deserves.

We barely make it home. I’m vaguely grateful that Lockwood told us that he was going out with friends after my performance before I’m not inclined to think about Lockwood at all. I only pause to set my violin down on the couch before Monty is tugging me toward his room and I’m wrapping my arms around him and pressing my lips to his neck.

After that, clothing becomes strictly optional.

“There’s a box under the bed,” Monty gasps, in the middle of it all. I’m halfway down his button-down shirt, kissing my way down a button at a time. It’ll be a struggle to get his binder off—again, compression gear—but I don’t care just now. 

Monty pushes me. “The box,” he says, and I groan. I want my hands all over him, no interruptions. But he’s insistent, and I lean over to fish around for the box he means. This better be good, damnit. I’m not wasting my time on porno mags or whatever the fuck Monty has hidden under his bed. I want _him_.

Then, of course, he opens the box and I amend that thought. Because it’s not porno mags. It’s a _treasure trove_. I am the dread pirate Captain Two Tooth the Terrible and Monty is a busty mermaid with a chest full of pure gold.

“What the fuck,” I breathe. I honestly don’t know what half of this stuff even _is_. God, what a time to remember that I’m as virgin as they come. I’m not nervous, not really, because I _trust_ Monty, and I _do_ want this, but still… holy _shit_.

“Eyes on me, Perce. We can play with the toys later,” Monty says, wiggling his eyebrows. Then he digs around for a moment, pulls out a bottle of lube, and tosses the box aside.

My fingers are light and my brain is turning off. I’m half hard in my pants already. Still, if there was ever a time to be a gentleman I think it’s probably now, before the rest of my blood makes its way downward.

“Hold up just a second,” I say, taking Monty by the shoulders before he can lean in and press his lips to my pec. 

He whines. I nearly laugh. Then I take both his hands in mine and lean down until his eyes are on mine instead of staring at my chest.

He’s beautiful like this. Blue hair and binder and everything. The flush on his cheeks is bright and healthy, and he doesn’t look away as I settle before him, bringing his hands to my lips.

“I want to do this right,” I say, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I know you’ve been with people before, and I don’t mind, but this is about us. I want to make this a good experience for both of us. I want to know going in what will make you feel good and what’s off-limits, and I want you to know that if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable all you have to do is tell me and I’ll stop.”

By the time I’m done with my little speech, Monty is no longer whining. Instead, his cheeks have flushed even higher, an embarrassed smile gracing his lips as he scrunches his nose. “God, you’re such a _sap_,” he says, but he does as I requested, letting me know the dos and don’ts of making love to this Montague. No focusing on the breasts, no front end penetration, no hair pulling… but it’s a resounding yes to the suggestion of tongue, and I make up for inexperience with enthusiasm, helping him shimmy out of his pants and kissing my way down his thigh, leaning him back against his pillows as I go.

Now this… this is where things really get good. Because after the first few clumsy moments I find a rhythm, and as I go I start to feel something stirring in my lower belly. I think it’s my own arousal at first, coming fully awake at the sight, the smell, the _taste_ of _Monty Monty Monty_. Soon enough, however, I realize that the waves of pleasure coincide with each swipe of my tongue across him, the tremble of Monty’s muscles and the soft moans coming from his throat.

Hm. Interesting. I then nose forward and close my lips around Monty’s clit, sucking gently.

It’s like the sun piercing the clouds. Like a flash flood. An earthquake. An avalanche. His pleasure is so hot inside me that I groan aloud, clutching at his sides. His thighs tighten around my head, his heels pressed into my back. His head is thrown back, the cries silenced as his spine arches. His fingers clutch at the bedsheets.

“God, Percy, _do that again_,” he gasps.

So I do it again. And again. And again. Until I can barely breathe from the feeling of pleasure inside me, his and mine all twined together in a massive tangle of feeling. I feel it from my gut to my fingertips, from the crown of my head down to my feet. It is all-encompassing, taking up every atom of my being, inside and out. I’ve never felt like this, point-blank. Me and my hand is _nothing_ compared to feeling Monty’s mounting orgasm.

Then it hits, and let me tell you, the _mounting_ orgasm? Nothing again, compared to the orgasm itself. I come just from the feeling of his pleasure rocking through me.

We come down in a tangle, his hands in my hair and my arms wrapped around his thighs. I have my forehead pressed to his lower belly, breathing hard, so sweaty that I think for a moment I’m going to lose my grip on him. He gasps air, slowly regaining control of his breathing. “Fuck,” he says. That says it all, really.

I feel, as I lick my lips clean, like I should be proud for making Monty orgasm the first time. Instead, I just feel warm, and connected, and happy. 

I rise up on my elbows, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh as I go. He has a lilac Mark on his knee from one time when we were kids and I wiped out while riding my bike, matching a scar on my own knee—I press my lips there next. Then to a Mark on his shin, from cutting my leg on a fence. A Mark on his ankle, from falling off a swing. I extricate myself from his limbs and crawl up over him, pressing a kiss to every Mark I can find until I reach the Mark on his jaw from my violin.

“I’ve caused you so much pain…” I murmur, leaning back a little until I’m straddling his waist, one hand braced on the bed. I stroke his sweaty hair back from his face, running blue strands between my fingers. 

Monty laughs, his stomach moving under me. “Don’t start. I’ve caused you more.”

“I don’t think this is a competition.”

“Well, maybe it should be, because I’d win. I win for making you feel pleasure, too,” he says, grinning. And then, as if the words are catching up to him, he pushes himself up on his hands, nearly unseating me. “Percy,” he says, his eyes huge in his face. “I’m not imagining it, am I? You really did feel it, didn’t you?”

I nod, and suddenly my throat is sticky and my vision is going wonky and a tear is falling down my cheek and I can’t stop smiling because it’s—he’s—_we__’re_—

“You’re my Pleasure Partner,” he breathes, and I can’t see him through the tears because _every wish I__’ve ever made is coming true, right here and right now_. 

It’s so much, all at once. I can hardly stop myself from sobbing. He throws his arms around me and it’s so _much_ and it’s _so close to graduation_, to the surgery and to Monty’s return home—the end of college is looming and I never thought we’d have an opportunity like this so close to the end of the world as we know it let alone that it would result in us finding out that we’re _verum amet_, true loves, but here we are and _god above, father that art in heaven, I think I__’m going to die right here and right now_—

God… what a way to go. Naked, in the arms of the man I love more than anything in this universe, with tears streaming down my face. I laugh, and he laughs, and all is well in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR RAUNCHY BITS: Things get hot and heavy, Percy is a gentleman who asks for Monty's dos and don'ts so he can do things right, and Percy goes down on Monty. Percy feels Monty's pleasure and they orgasm together.
> 
> I was looking up composers and Michael Abels came up. He’s p cool, he’s the dude who did the Us soundtrack. Or most of it, I think. I forget now. Anyway! I arbitrarily decided that’s what Percy’s symphony is playing, but you can substitute any composer you want, haha.
> 
> Also! Would you believe that this is my first time writing actual sex? Probably, it’s probably uhhhh not that great, so I’m definitely open to critique.


	26. The End of the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graduation is here, and there's nowhere left to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter in the whole fic, so enjoy!
> 
> [A song to set the mood.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmErxcANTs8)

Graduation comes soon after that. We finish up the last of our finals, participate in the university’s spirit week, and then, like the tide rolling in, it’s here.

“Ugh. Black is really not my color,” Monty mutters, fiddling with the sleeve of his gown. 

“The black is fine,” I say. His cap is on sideways, the tag sticking out, and I reach over absently to fix it. “I’d be more worried about the fact that it looks like a sack than the fact that it’s black.”

“Are you saying I couldn’t make a sack look good?”

I laugh. “I’m definitely not saying that.”

We’ve talked, a little. About being Pleasure Partners as well as Pain Pals, about what our relationship is. We’ve agreed to date, like normal people, even if our situation is anything but normal. We’ve shared a few giddy kisses, reveling in the novelty of it all. What we _haven__’t_ done is brought up what’s going to happen after graduation. I haven’t asked Monty to leave with me. But I think… yeah. I think tonight is the night. And I think, maybe, he’ll say yes.

Other than that, everything is relatively standard. We’re coming back toward homeostasis, settling back into a new normal. I’m nervous, sure, but it’s an excited kind of nervous. This time tomorrow we might be setting out on our own, running away from everything we’ve ever known. All I have to do is ask. 

I try not to think about the fact that I’ve put all my eggs in this one basket. If Monty says no… god, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s enough to make my heart palpitate.

“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Monty comments. I quickly shake myself out of my thoughts. That’ll come later. For now, we need to get ready to walk for our diplomas.

The ceremony is long and boring. Monty and I are seated in the same row, though there are a few people between us. I keep looking over but he’s got his phone out, focused on the little screen. I look back up at our keynote speaker—talking about the opportunities the youth of today have—and try to wait patiently for the important part.

It’s then that my phone buzzes in my pocket. I shift in my seat, trying to dig it out without disturbing everyone around me.

It’s a text. From Monty. 

_Doesn_ _’t this guy’s mustache make him look like a walrus?_

I smother a laugh.

We do eventually get to the important part, and Monty and I get to walk across the stage and shake hands with the school president and the dean. There’s a smattering of applause and one “GO PERCY!” for me, but Monty has nearly the whole tent standing, wolf whistles going off. He bows after he takes his diploma, to more applause.

As I take the stairs down from the far side of the stage, I look out into the crowd. My aunt and uncle are out there somewhere, probably relaxing now that I finally have my diploma in my hand. Felicity and the Montagues are here as well, the baby and the nanny accompanying them. I spot Helena and Lockwood, sitting side by side on the far side of the tent—Helena isn’t graduating quite yet, instead talking about turning her major into a double major, which would require a few more years to complete. She’s not as suited for academics as Dante is, but she seems to enjoy the travel and the friendship. I hope we get to see her again before we leave for good. And Lockwood, though I’m sure we’ll get to see him since we still have to clean our things out of the apartment. Our families will be heading home tonight after a celebration dinner at a fancy establishment, leaving us behind to get our shit together. We’ll be heading back in a few days, or so they assume.

For now, however, I have one thing on my mind—waiting until all the formal stuff is over and snagging Monty before he’s overwhelmed with admirers so I can sweep him off to the apartment for a private celebration. We’ll be meeting up with our families at five-thirty, but until then Monty is mine and mine alone. I intend to make the most of it.

“What do you want to do?” Monty asks once we’re home alone. He makes a show of pulling his gown off, tossing his cap aside dramatically.

“Anything you want,” I answer. I’m not sure what exactly it is I want—to hang out, just the two of us? To eat him out again? God, there are so many options—but I know that whatever he decides will be good enough for me.

“Anything I want, huh?” he’s saying now, tapping his chin and pretending to think hard. “Well… I do have my box.”

“That’s certainly true,” I say.

He grins. I grin back. Then I grab hold of one of his hands, my other hand on his waist, and dip him into a kiss, my own flair for dramatics coming out. He laughs against my lips, and I couldn’t stop smiling if I had a gun to my head.

We have our fun and are cleaned up just in time for dinner. Lockwood is accompanying us, though he’s a lot less enthused about Mr. Montague than he once was. I eat my fill of shrimp and scallops before I feel Monty’s foot ascending up my calf, and I raise an eyebrow. He nods his head toward the door. 

“We’re going to go out for some fresh air,” I say, slipping out of the booth with Monty behind me. Felicity is giving us a shrewd look, and Monty winks at her before we’re out the door and into the evening dusk. I slip my hand into Monty’s as soon as we’re out.

It’s good. It’s perfect. Which is exactly the reason why I have a sudden sense of foreboding as Monty’s hand tightens in mine and he opens his mouth.

“So… I’ve, um, I’ve been thinking.”

Oh, no. Never a good sign. “…Yes?” I ask, apprehension making my fingertips tingle.

Monty pulls us to a stop just under the display of one of the shops, colorful lights on strings hanging above our heads. He places his hands on my hips as if he’s grounding himself, getting ready to say something. He doesn’t meet my eyes when I lean down to catch his gaze. “Don’t take this wrong, but don’t you think… I don’t know, maybe you should have the surgery?”

I pull back, my brow creased. “No? It’s invasive. The side effects are awful, and there’s a chance I won’t even be the same person after everything is said and done. You don’t… you don’t want that, do you?”

He’s definitely avoiding my eyes. “I thought I didn’t want rehab, but then I went and everything turned out fine,” he says, though there’s something uncertain about it.

It still feels like a slap to the face. “So you think major brain surgery is like rehab?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I don’t know. Maybe? It’s just… if you weren’t sick, maybe you would… I don’t know. Be happier?”

“I’m happy right now,” I say. Well, not _right _now, because right this second I’m feeling kind of hurt and confused, but you know what I mean.

He grips me tighter as if I’ll turn away from him. “Yeah, but… happi_er_. You wouldn’t have to diet or rely on people to drive you places or worry about your meds. And…”

“…And _you_ wouldn’t have to worry about losing your inheritance,” I finish for him. I breathe out, turning my gaze up towards the sky. The moon, the velvet clouds, the stars starting to peek through them… they all seem so much further away all of a sudden.

He sighs beside me, his hands finally leaving my hips. “Can you blame me? It’s scary, to think about having nothing. Being nothing. At least like this, I’m the son of the governor. I know my future. Besides, is it really so bad to live at home?”

I keep my eyes on the stars. “Are you planning to let your father rule your life forever?” I ask. “Just for the safety of knowing what’s going to happen, even if it’s bad?”

“Are you going to let your sickness rule yours?” he responds.

I breathe out a sigh. “My sickness is what it is, Monty. I live with it—it’s part of me. But you… you can do something about your father. So why don’t you?”

He’s getting frustrated, snappish. “Maybe because there’s nothing to be done!” he bites.

Shaking my head, I finally look back down at him, catching the glow of fairy lights reflecting off his eyes. “There is. You’re just scared.” 

It comes out softer and sadder than I ever meant it to. Still, Monty is already up in arms—he takes it as a direct attack, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. I’m in the process of boarding the windows between my ribs against the storm when he bares his teeth, leans into my space, and hisses, “Maybe I’m scared or maybe I’m not, all I know is that I don’t need someone like _you_ telling me what to do.”

My attempts to protect myself don’t help. All the fortifications in the _world_ wouldn’t help. It’s a shot straight to my heart, those words. Head on, point-blank. I have to physically step back, my mouth opening and my eyes closing in a wince. This is my worst fear, come to life—that he thinks of me as different, as other. Monty, my dearest Monty, thinks less of me for something I have no control over.

He blinks, his eyes shiny, and I see the moment he realizes exactly what he’s said. He can’t take it back, though—he can’t swallow the words back down. I close my eyes again and run a hand over my face. 

Still… I said that tonight was the night I was going to ask him to run away with me. I stand up straight and tall, letting my hands fall to my sides, and say, “I’m leaving. I won’t be coming back. Not for the surgery, not for anything. You can come with me, or you can stay with your father, and either way…”

I close my mouth, my throat seizing up. We were two comets, streaking across the sky, nearly parallel. It took us so long to come together, for our paths to finally cross, and we were happy to finally meet. But Fate had other plans, and our union was destined to last only for a single instant before we passed each other right on by. Now we’ve split apart again, our paths again parallel but separate, and we’ll never cross paths a second time. Once was all that Fate granted us, and now…

“Just… just think about it, okay?” I ask, and I’m so grateful that my voice stays steady. I know he won’t think about it. He’s made up his mind already.

I don’t go back to the restaurant. I’m not sure if Monty does, either, but I need some time alone. I want to make a plan for what I’ll do when I leave this all behind, but what I end up doing instead is lying on my bed in silence, waiting for god knows what. Monty isn’t coming with me and I have to get used to the thought of living alone, going down my own path, with no one by my side.

The thought twists a knife in my heart, and I try valiantly to fight off tears for a few minutes before giving in and letting them fall. I had it all, I had _everything_. A Pain Pal and a Pleasure Partner and a best friend all in one. And now…

God. I roll over, curling up on my side. I don’t move again. 

At some point, I must fall asleep because when I wake the moon has traveled across the sky and there’s movement in the kitchen. I slip out of bed, taking stock of myself. I’m all right, I suppose—I feel funny for taking a nap in the evening, but I’ll live. 

Lockwood is in the kitchen when I make my way out, sorting our pots and pans into boxes. “Ah, there you are,” he says. “Scipio called to say that Monty is staying with him for the night. He wanted me to tell you that Monty is upset but safe.” He pauses a moment, his hands stilling. “Is, ah… is everything okay?” he asks.

I shrug. Then I take another moment to take stock of my Pain Bond, as well—there’s nothing coming across. 

Good. Good. I was kind of afraid that Monty would slip up after our fight and go get drunk, but he’s keeping himself sober. God, or that maybe Duke would catch up to him. That would be bad. But he seems fine, and Scipio will take care of him. And I’ve got Lockwood, and my violin, and the rest of my life to figure myself out. It’ll be okay. Because maybe… maybe things are better off this way? Monty and I, as much as I hate to admit it, have been kind of an echo chamber of pain. We hurt each other without meaning to, my pain crossing to him and then back to me and again and back. Leaving without him is the most painful thing I can imagine, but at least this kind of pain won’t cross the Bond. Besides, not all Soulmates are good for each other. 

Maybe we just rushed things, and we’ll meet up again, later in life, after we’ve both settled into ourselves. I can hope.

I spend the rest of the night with my violin, playing as softly as I can so I don’t disturb Lockwood. Just slow, soulful melodies that come to me, bits of songs and my own takes on them, spinning notes like yarn. The next day is spent packing. Monty himself doesn’t come back, and I don’t expect him to—he’s probably already left for home. Instead one of the family servants arrives to take care of his things. 

I pack up my backpack with everything I can fit, clothes and meds and hygiene essentials. I count my cash, count it again, and stow it away safe and sound in my violin case. Then I set about putting everything else in boxes to be delivered to my aunt and uncle. They’ll probably throw it all out, but I can’t take it with me, so. 

I sigh, closing my eyes. And then jerk as the doorbell rings.

“Percy!” Lockwood calls a moment later. “It’s for you!”

I set down the plates I’m holding and head for the door. And then stop dead in my tracks. 

It’s Sinclair. Standing primly in the doorway. And at his elbow, biting his lip, is Monty. The moment he catches my eye he pushes into the apartment, going, “Percy, I need to talk to you.”

“I’m not going back with you,” I say. 

“What? No, of course not. I just wanted to say, what I said yesterday—”

I smile, though it’s not a happy one. “It’s okay, Monty. If you think you should go then go. You don’t have to justify yourself. I’m not mad, okay?”

“No, that’s—no!” he says, frustrated, though I can’t see why he needs to be. He made it very clear last night exactly what he thinks. 

Except… he doesn’t say what I think he’s going to say. He opens his mouth and the words, “I made a mistake. Ask me again,” tumble out.

I stare, opening my mouth and then closing it again, unsure. Sinclair and Lockwood are staring at us like we’re a soap opera and I can’t fault them for it. I’m just… not sure what’s going on?

Monty stares back at me, urging me onward despite my silence. “Just—just ask me again,” he says, beseeching.

I twitch, glancing around. I feel like I’m being backed into a corner. He’s not going to say what I want to hear, so what is his game? “Monty…”

“Percy, _please_.”

“I don’t—”

“_Ask me again, Percy, I am literally begging you_.”

His eyes are wide, so wide, looking at me like I have the power to make or break him. But that’s not true. It’s him who can make or break _me_, him who holds my fragile world in his hands.

If this is a trick… if he doesn’t want to come with me…

Still, I have to try, don’t I? I’m literally Bound to him, our Fates knotted together once, twice, infinite times. Who would I be if I didn’t try to save us both just one more time? So I take a deep breath, mentally steadying myself, and ask, “…Will you run away with me?”

It’s the third time I’ve asked, and I’m still braced for rejection. The third time is apparently the charm, though, because his face breaks into a smile, the widest I think I’ve ever seen. “Yes,” he says, and his eyes are shining under the light of the fluorescents above us. “Yes, Percy, _yes_.”

“You… you’re for real?” I ask. I almost can’t believe it. It feels like a dream, the sweetest dream I’ve ever had.

He cups my cheeks in his hands, nodding. “We’ll leave tomorrow. No, wait—tonight. As soon as we can. I’ll run away with you, and we’ll live all alone in the city, and we’ll never see our families ever again, and it will be wonderful, like a fairy tale, I cross my heart and hope to die.”

And as he says it, a tear tips over and makes its way down his face, and I know what he’s giving up to come with me. What we’re both giving up. But he means it, he really means it, and I’m so happy, my heart is so _full_, that I feel like I’m going to explode. I press my lips to the tear track on his cheek, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and nearly lift him right off his feet. The beat of our hearts together spells out a declaration of love. He’s _mine mine mine_.

From somewhere to our side Sinclair clears his throat. “Should I inform your father that you won’t be coming home?”

“Yes. You should,” Monty says, and the giddiness has started to seep into his voice. I grin. I can feel it, too, like it’s crossed the Bond to me. It manifests as a lightness in my limbs, a lift in my spine. Because it’s really, really happening—we’re free, we’re free, we’re _free_.

We leave that night with nothing but a violin, our backpacks, and each other. Well, and Lockwood’s promise that he’ll send the couch after us once we’ve found our own place. Lockwood and Sinclair wave as we get on the bus to leave apartment 17B behind for the last time and the two of us wave back. We’ve given Scipio a heads up—we’ll be staying at the _Eleftheria_ until we figure out what to do with ourselves.

It should feel scary, I think, as I watch Lockwood and Sinclair disappear in the distance. We’ll be completely cut off from everyone in our families except Felicity. No insurance, no jobs, no house, no support… but despite the fact that we’ve left everyone behind I can’t for the life of me feel bad. I lean into Monty’s side as we slip into a pair of seats at the back of the bus, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. Even though we’ve got none of the comforts we’re used to, I still have the one thing that matters. 

My one, my only, my _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: SPOILERS FOR THE GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE TO GETTING LUCKY but I was waaay off about their first time. I mean, it kind of had to happen this way for this AU, but still lmfao.
> 
> EDIT: I'M SO SORRY BUT THE LAST CHAPTER IS GOING TO BE LATE DLLSKKSDLKDSKDSKL. It would have been so sweet to have it out on thanksgiving but I'm not feeling well and it's not finished D: It'll probably be out tomorrow.


	27. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue, of sorts.

One Year Later

I’m still in bed when the doorbell rings. Well, ‘rings’. It not a ring so much as a funny little half-assed buzz, the button just this far from being properly broken. We’ve talked to the landlord about it—he refuses to fix it until it stops for good.

I roll over slowly, toeing at Monty. “Get the door,” I tell him, and he grumbles. He’s been loathe to leave today, though he’ll have to head out to work soon enough. Still, he does go, if begrudgingly, stroking my hair back from my face once before he slips out of bed. I listen to his footsteps all the way to the door, nuzzling back down into my pillow. I’m so sore, god… I miss the luxury of pain numbing meds. I’m surprised Monty is on his feet with how bad I feel, honestly. He’s hurting, too, but somehow he manages to press onward and pretend that he’s not. He’s funny that way.

I close my eyes, letting myself to limp. It hasn’t been easy, the past year. We stayed at the _Eleftheria_ for a good two months before we found a place that would lease to us that wasn’t horribly expensive. I still had to fork over a good chunk of my savings for the safety deposit and the first month of rent, though, and then it was busking on street corners during the day and applying to jobs at night, fighting off sleep. It was by chance that I found my way into a string quartet, though it’s been a struggle to hold onto the job. We lost our insurance after Henri the Senior officially disowned Monty, and the cost of my meds was too much—I’ve been downgraded to a quarter of the effective dose, which does just enough to keep me functional so long as I don’t do literally anything. And since I still have to do things, well… even with the meds I’ve started getting seizures. Hence why we’re in bed at two PM on a Thursday.

I listen as Monty opens the door, his voice carrying down the short hall, drowsing and not really listening to the words. When he returns a moment later it’s with Felicity in tow. She’s dragging a suitcase along behind her, and as she pulls it up short I manage to sit upright, a smile on my face. “Hey,” I say. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Yeah, well, neither was I,” she snorts. Then, when I look at her with concern, clarifies—“Callum asked me out this morning. So now I’m here.”

I blink. Then, despite the ache and the drowsiness, I start to laugh. “The guy who has been pining over you for months asks you out and in response you literally leave the state the first chance you get?”

Her face, already twisted at the idea of _romance_, goes even more pinched. “God, don’t—stop laughing, both of you. He sprang it on me! There were pastries involved! He—Monty, stop, I swear to _god_—”

Monty is too busy snickering into his hand to stop. “Does Sim know you’ve got a fling behind her back?” he asks, eyes alight with a mischievous energy.

Felicity rolls her eyes, slapping his arm just hard enough to cross the Bond. Monty backs away, hands up, as she goes, “Sim and I aren’t—and it isn’t a _fling_—just—_there is so much wrong with that question that I don__’t even know where to start_.”

I cover my face, trying to smother my laughter into the sheets before she turns that considerable ire on me. Alas, I’m too late, for her sharp eyes have found mine, searing into my soul.

“Percy Newton, there is absolutely _nothing_ funny about the situation I’m in,” she says, low and ominous.

I gasp, trying to get control of myself. The ache in my muscles is as much a motivator as Felicity’s dark stare. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry. It’s just… you flew five hours to get away from some well-meaning guy who just wanted a shot with a woman way out of his league. Forgive me.”

She _harrumphs_ at that, the frown nearly etched into her face. Then her eyes go wide, staring at me. Or, more importantly, my bare chest. “Percy. Where is your _shirt_? Oh, god, did I _interrupt something_?” she asks, aghast, taking a step back and nearly running into the dividing screen that keeps our bedroom out of our kitchen. She looks so soundly horrified that I’m tempted to start laughing again.

“No, of course not,” Monty says. “If something were going on do you think I’d have answered the door? What kind of gentleman would leave in the middle of sex to—”

“Okay, that’s quite enough.” Felicity plants a hand over his mouth. She then makes a face as he licks her palm. She wipes his spit off on him before it’s her turn to grow concerned. “You’re not sick, are you? I _knew_ I should have called ahead to see if I should bring anything—”

I wave her off. “Just a seizure yesterday. I’m a little out of it, but I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done now.”

Her frown and her next sentence are cut short by Monty’s alarm going off. “Ah,” he says, looking at the screen. “That’s my cue. Off to work I go.” 

“I’m sorry,” Felicity says, watching him start to paw through the dresser at the foot of the bed, “But I thought I heard you say the word ‘work’.”

“Oh. Did I not tell you that in the emails?” Monty asks.

Felicity rolls her eyes. “What emails?”

“The emails we send!”

“Excuse me? _Percy_ sends emails. You scrawl a line or two at the bottom about something lewd and call it a day.”

Monty grunts, struggling into a sweater. Once he’s appeared again he says, “Hey! I’ll have you know that I put a lot of time and effort into my contributions. I also work a real and _very_ respectable job. Back me up, Percy.”

He then throws his hand out expectantly to me. I can’t help it—despite the fact that I’m feeling a little fuzzy and off-center, and if I move around too much my limbs feel like they’re going to fall off, I smile and go, “Real, yes. Respectable? Remains to be seen.”

Monty gapes for a moment, before clapping a hand to his chest dramatically. “Well, I never! In my own home! By my own boyfriend! On this, the day of my daughter’s wedding—”

“So what is it? What do you do for a living?” Felicity asks, cutting him off. “I’m dying to know what marketable skills you have. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

The look on Monty’s face can only be described as ‘wounded’. It only gets more so when he admits, “Well, it’s not a _skill_, per se…”

“Monty is modeling at the university,” I say, looking fondly at Monty when he pouts his lip. “For the art classes.”

Felicity stares at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Seriously?” she asks.

“Well… yeah. I mean, I had a few other ideas, but apparently the casino hasn’t hired people to pretend to be drunk and scam people out of their money in years, so—”

He’s interrupted by his second alarm, the one telling him to get is ass out the door already. 

“Nuts,” he mutters, throwing his winter hat on over his short hair despite the fact that it’s now spring. He refuses to stop wearing it, insists that it’s the best article of clothing that he owns despite the fact that I was just learning to knit when I made it. 

Once he has it arranged to perfection in the little mirror next to the dresser, he leans down to kiss me, cradling my jaw gently. Sweet and slow. Then he notices his sister’s nose wrinkling again and the kiss turns into a show, all tongue and teeth and an unappetizing squelch when he pulls back. I nearly groan, except for the fact that I’m a little dazed at the display. I wish his sister would come around more often if he’d treat me to that, holy _shit_. Except not really, because imagine how awkward that would be.

He pulls back, grinning at Felicity’s scandalized expression, before clapping her on the back and heading out the door. It closes behind him with a _bang_.

And then opens again, Monty blustering back in. “Forgot my wallet,” he says. He’s then out the door again.

…Aaand back in a moment later, going, “Wait, just one more thing—”

Felicity rolls her eyes as Monty presses his lips to mine once again, this time more of a peck because he really does have to go. His dark hair peeks out from the edge of the shapeless hat, all the blond/blue long since cut away because we couldn’t afford to keep up with his roots.

“I love you,” he says, intently, from barely two inches away. His eyes are bright, as bright as stars. He himself is a star, one that I’d love even if it went supernova, even if he took us all out with him as he burned out in a flare of violent light. I want to hold him tight and never let go.

Alas, I cannot. I press my lips to his one last time and let him go, watching from the bed as he makes his way out the door for hopefully the last time.

He doesn’t come back. There is, however, a buzz from my cheap pay-as-you-go phone. I look down at it, smiling at the text he’s sent.

_Hey so I know I just saw you but ILY_.

God, what would I do without this man?

Certainly not have the best future sister-in-law in the world. “Sit with me,” I say, and pat the bed beside me, inviting Felicity over. 

She settles herself with a _fwump_. “You got the paper I emailed you about topiramate, didn’t you?” she asks, a crease between her brows as she looks over at me. I must look a sight. “I know you’re still having a hard time with money but it really might be worth looking into.”

“Yeah! I’m planning to bring it up when I go to the clinic next week,” I say. “Thank you for that. It means a lot.”

“It’s no problem. I just wish I could do more.”

“You do more than enough.”

“Hmph.”

We fall into a companionable silence. I can tell that she wants to go off on a tangent about the topiramate paper, but she’s resisting, likely because she knows I’m not feeling that well. It’s refreshing to see her—she’s one of my favorite people in this world, truly, second only to Monty. I’ve missed her. And thought they fight and pick on each other, I know Monty missed her, too. Emails just don’t cut it.

I yawn, listing a little. Refreshing it may be, but it’s so much effort to stay upright.

“You can sleep, you know.”

I glance over at Felicity. She’s eyeing me shrewdly. “You wouldn’t mind?” I ask.

“No. You look like you’re about to fall over. I’ll just read.”

Astute assessment. She scoots out of my way as I make a slow descent back to our rock-hard mattress, going to fetch a book from her bag. I assume she’s going to go sit on the couch with it, but instead find her awkwardly hovering beside me, as if debating something with herself.

I watch for a moment before drawing the covers back. “Here, get in.”

She seems to deflate, all her hard edges softening, before she shucks off her boots and her jacket and climbs into the bed with me. 

“I’ve missed you. Both of you,” she says, so softly I think she’s trying not to be heard. But heard it I have, and I smile into my pillow. I reassure her that I won’t tell Monty, and she huffs. I laugh softly. Then I doze, thinking about us and her and this vast, scary world we live in. 

It’s good to have people. And maybe the guys who ran away from home and left everything but a couch, a violin, and each other behind aren’t the best role models, but we’re happy, and that’s all that really matters.

I sleep the rest of the day away, only waking when Monty gets home and presses a kiss to my cheek. Felicity is up and about, probably in search of something to eat—it seems like she’s been out of the apartment, as well, judging by the pharmacy bag on the pillow beside me. I peek inside and feel immensely grateful when I find some over-the-counter pain meds. Tonight is a big night and I feared after the seizure yesterday that I’d have to put it off, but this should be enough to get me through it. I wait until Felicity has eaten and is taking a cold shower in our shitty, pea-sized bathroom before getting out of bed for the first time today and heading over to the fridge.

“Oh, I could have brought you something,” Monty says, frowning. I wave him off and tell him to go sit down. I have something for him, got it yesterday before the seizure had it’s way with me. I take care lighting the candle, and then…

Monty’s eyebrow goes up as he sees the cupcake and the lit number 1 candle in my hands. “What’s this?” he asks. His confusion is adorable.

I smile. “It’s an anniversary, darling.”

It takes him a moment to understand, and then he’s covering his face with his hands. “…Oh my god. Oh my god. Is it really? How did I forget that? I’m the worst, oh my _god_.”

God, I love this man. I’m so glad that Monty is in my life that it’s unreal. I get to have breakfast with him every morning, and go grocery shopping with him every week, and honestly the fact that he forgot our anniversary is like dust in the wind. I laugh, setting the cupcake down on the table in front of him and leaning in close to pull his hands down. “You’re not the worst. You’re just working hard to provide for me,” I say, then press a kiss to his knuckles. “Besides, a lot has been going on. The seizure and your sister and—”

“That’s not an excuse,” he groans. He’s eyeing the cupcake, though, and I silently give him permission to blow out the candle. He gently pries the paper off once he’s done, using the knife I’ve brought over to cut it in half. He raises a piece up to my lips, letting me get the first taste.

It’s good, but it tastes even better on his lips.

Once the confection is gone and we’re finished kissing, for now, he leans back and gives me a soft look. “So what else did you have planned?” he asks.

I breathe out, soaking up everything about him, all the small details that give him life. “Anything you want,” I respond, my voice low.

“Are you… feeling up to maybe… playing something for me?” Monty asks, hopeful.

“Something short,” I promise, reaching a hand out so that he’ll pass me my violin. I expect him to pass over the whole case, but instead he opens it and hands me the violin and the bow, so achingly careful with them. I shuffle on the couch until I’m almost facing him, bring the bow to the strings, and…

It’s still not Ke$ha. Not dance music, not pop. But not classical, either. It’s something for the both of us. And as I go Monty starts to hum, and then to sing, and this time I know he’s singing just for me. 

My name is Percy Newton, and I have a problem. I’m in love with my Soulmate. I love him so much that some days it feels overwhelming.

Go ahead. Say whatever it is you need to say. Say that we’re fucked up and living in sin and that Fate was wrong. It’s true. We are. It was. We’ve chosen to do things the hard way, to live a life that isn’t easy. We have a lot of expenses, from rent to meds to phone bills to hormones to therapy, and we can barely hold one normal job between the two of us. We barely scrape by some weeks. 

I sigh, laying next to Monty in bed that night. I brush a piece of his hair back from his forehead. For now, Monty is in my arms and I am content. I doze as the world around us turns, the stars shine on, and the Bonds between us resonate with the energy of the universe.

It’s not easy, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THAT THIS IS A DAY LATE. I wasn't feeling that well, which is ironic considering that Percy wasn't feeling that well, either, haha. But anyway! It's here! Let me know what you think!
> 
> [THE SONG PERCY PLAYS.](https://open.spotify.com/track/6sYfZ6gvavoQROOsFcB7xi)
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading! And thank you for all the sweet and excited comments, I'm in awe, tbh. This has been a really nice experience for me. And! Some fun facts! This fic is officially the longest fic in the TGGTVAV fandom of AO3, and is the second longest fic I've ever written! How cool is that?! I didn't expect it to get this long, but here we are, haha. 
> 
> If there are any short (or long) stories you'd like to see in this AU just let me know!
> 
> Anyway! Thank you a lot! Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers!
> 
> I live off comments, so please tell me what you think of the story!


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